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* 




































































■ ■ ' 


■ i . 




















The • 

Handwriting 
on the 

Wall 































The Amazing Exploits 
of the Shadowers, Inc. 


THE DOOM DEALER 
ETHEL OPENS THE DOOR 

THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIM¬ 
SELF 

THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL 


Chronicled by 
DAVID FOX 





- ^ ,'c. 

l\ j 

The 

Handwriting 
on the Wall 

AN EXPLOIT OF 
THE SHADOWERS, INC. 

BY 

DAVID FOX 


New York 

Robert M. McBride &f Company 
MCMXXIV 




Copyright, 1 92 4, by 
Robert M. McBride & Co. 





Printed in the 
United States of America 



..—— a.,-, , 

Published, 1924 


m -7 

©C1A702750 



A / 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I 

The Changeling . 


•! 

r.i 

PAGE 

3 

II 

In Their Hands 




19 

III 

The Writing on the Wall . 




32 

IV 

The Shadowers Decide . 




44 

V 

Clifford in Command . 




54 

VI 

The Wireless .... 




68 

VII 

The Rat-faced Man 




83 

VIII 

A House Divided 




97 

IX 

Even the Woman! . 




109 

X 

Behind High Walls 




122 

XI 

In the Next Room . 




134 

XII 

“Wrong Number!” . 




147 

XIII 

A Shred of Blue Serge . 




159 

XIV 

An Unexpected Reunion 




172 

XV 

The Truth About Radwick 




183 

XVI 

Double Play .... 




198 

XVII 

Lucy Intervenes 




209 

XVIII 

Desertion Under Fire . 




224 

XIX 

The Girl on the Stairs 




236 

XX 

Bessie. 




250 

XXI 

The Midnight Warning 




264 

XXII 

The Cellar on Hester Street 




279 

XXIII 

“Out of the Mouths — ” 




287 

XXIV 

Ethel's Reward 



. 

300 











The 

Handwriting 
on the 
Wall 






CHAPTER I 


THE CHANGELING 

T HE SHADOWERS, INC., was unique among 
agencies of private investigation. Not only in 
its discrimination in the cases which it accepted 
—to say nothing of its original, strictly individualized 
methods of procedure—but in its very personnel it dif¬ 
fered from any other organization for the suppression 
of crime. 

Dedicating its services solely to clients of the high¬ 
est social as well as financial standing to whom con¬ 
fidence and discretion would be more potent factors 
than prosecution, it undertook no affairs of a scan¬ 
dalous nor trivial nature; yet its half dozen members 
were specialists in widely dissimilar lines and together 
they formed a combination qualified to deal with prac¬ 
tically every type of malefactor known to the records 
of the police and secret service. 

Confidence and discretion were as essential to The 
Shadowers as to any of their clients, and well might 
they be considered specialists in dealing with crime, 
for all six were themselves past masters in every form 
of roguery short of murder. Indeed, they had all, 
with the sole exception of Rex Powell, their leader and 
moving spirit, at various unfortunate periods served 
terms in prison for their transgressions. Hence they 
had welcomed his suggestion that, having formerly 


4 The Handwriting on the Wall 

played the game from the wrong side—wrong, not 
necessarily from the reformer’s standpoint but from 
the standpoint of practicability and profit—they now 
should turn their highly specialized knowledge to the 
solving of crime problems. The result during the few 
months following their incorporation had exceeded 
their most optimistic hopes. 

Nevertheless the offices of The Shadowers in the 
Bolingbroke, newest and most imposing of business 
buildings mid-town, bore a distinctly forlorn air one 
balmy April evening when Clifford Nichols, ex-forger 
and counterfeiter, opened the outer door with his key 
and glanced at the empty chair behind the desk as he 
started for the inner sanctum where he held forth as 
handwriting expert of the firm. 

Then he paused, a frown of annoyance creasing his 
esthetic brow, and the slim, tapering white fingers 
whose artistry in the past had hoodwinked half the 
banking institutions in the country played nervously 
with his small, dark goatee. Some one had placed a 
tiny bunch of fragrant pink arbutus on the exquisitely 
inlaid desk. Cliff Nichols eyed the oddly shaped glass 
receptacle which held it and then unceremoniously 
thrust open a sliding panel which led to the laboratory 
on his left. 

“You put that confounded arbutus on Ethel’s desk!” 
he declared accusingly. “Good heavens, Henry, isn’t 
it bad enough even after four months to come in day 
after day and find her place vacant, without having the 
fact emphasized by a—a memorial?” 


The Changeling 5 

Henry Corliss, very fat, very bald and all of fifty, 
looked up from the chemical retorts spread upon the 
table before him with a wistful expression on his round, 
good-natured face. His erstwhile profession as a pur¬ 
veyor of fake medicines had for years held in abeyance 
the passion for toxicology which, combined with his 
rare knowledge and research, bade fair to bring him 
belated eminence now, and had already rendered him 
an indispensable adjunct to the organization. He 
glanced slyly towards the desk. 

“Those sassy little spring flowers kinder reminded 
me of Ethel,” he remarked apologetically. “Pert, and 
fresh, and gosh-almighty sweet! You don’t think she 
could have gone back—to shoplifting, I mean? I don’t 
see how Rex doped it out, when he watched her work¬ 
ing the stores, that she’d be such a little wonder of a 
secretary for us, but we never half appreciated her till 
she took this vacation—” 

“You there, Cliff? Thought you’d gone to Atlantic 
City.” The panel at the farther side of the laboratory 
slipped aside, disclosing the handsome—if somewhat 
weak—face and snappily attired figure of the young¬ 
est recruit to The Shadowers, the skillful ex-yegg and 
boxman who had developed into their mechanical 
genius. 

“I decided to put it off, I don’t know why,” Cliff re¬ 
sponded idly. “Has Rex been in?” 

“Not since morning.” Phil Howe’s expression was 
unwontedly crestfallen and he added disgustedly; 
“There’s been nothing doing and it’s time to shut up 


6 The Handwriting on the Wall 

shop. We haven’t had a worth-while case since Ethel 
left us flat!” 

Henry Corliss shook his head in lugubrious assent 
and Cliff Nichols remarked: 

“There doesn’t appear to be a leaf stirring. I 
really dropped in to-night on the off chance that there 
might be news of our little honorary member; I fancy 
I’ll wait, anyway, and see Rex.” 

The angle of the small study, glimpsed behind Phil 
Howe, revealed walls lined with richly bound books 
of reference and the corner of a table laden with weigh¬ 
ing machines, magnifying glasses and bottles of inks, 
dyes and acids. It was Cliff Nichols’ own den, and 
that of Phil lay just beyond, the two together with the 
laboratory and ante-room forming four sides of the 
six-sided central chamber presided over by the presi¬ 
dent, Rex Powell. 

The remaining two apartments of the suite were oc¬ 
cupied by Lucian Baynes, the art connoisseur and jewel 
expert whose smuggling days had made history; and by 
George Roper, king of confidence men and fake spirit¬ 
ualists, whose unique study of human nature had made 
him valuable now as cross-examiner extraordinary of 
reluctant witnesses. 

At the present moment, beyond the hexagonal inner 
room, Lucian Baynes stood, poised in the aperture be¬ 
tween his diminutive studio and the somber, barbari- 
cally luxurious audience chamber of the pseudo-sooth¬ 
sayer, peering with interest at the long, thin, black- 


The Changeling 1 

clad legs protruding from beneath the gorgeously 
draped dais. 

“What in the name of the Sphinx are you doing, 
George?” he drawled. “Worshiping some new god of 
the gullible?” 

“Can’t find a benighted thing in this temple of bunk 
since Ethel went away!” A mournful, muffled voice 
sounded from under the heavy folds of dull, glimmer¬ 
ing metallic stuff and the legs crawled backward, bring¬ 
ing to view an attenuated, frock-coated figure and an 
ascetic, dignified countenance, streaked with dust and 
framed in dark hair graying slightly at the temples. 
“If we only knew where that enterprising young woman 
had sequestered herself I think Rex’s mind would be 
easier; he’s been worrying lately.” 

Lucian Baynes shrugged his slim, London-clad shoul¬ 
ders. 

“Ethel survived a precarious childhood in heaven 
knows what part of the slums, and a brilliant, if brief, 
career of larceny under the able direction of Lefty 
Jane; I fancy she is capable of taking care of herself 
during her proposed campaign of self-education, but I 
miss her as much as you do. Has it occurred to you 
that she may have become too cultivated to associate 
with the rest of us? Remember, she still considers us 
a band of unregenerate crooks running a new swin¬ 
dling game—or worse. What if she has decided to 
forswear us and all our works?” 

George Roper got slowly to his feet, consternation 


8 The Handwriting on the Wall 

struggling with incredulity in the look he cast upon 
his confrere. 

“Lord, you don’t think that, Luce? She can’t be 
much over twenty, but she’s as loyal as they come and 
the love of the game is bred in the bone with her just 
as it is with the rest of us. We’d never get anybody 
to take her place.” 

An abrupt signal from the buzzer seemed to give 
emphasis to his final remark, and Lucian turned to¬ 
ward the panel leading to the central room from which 
all the other offices radiated. 

“There’s Rex now! Wonder if there’s something 
in the wind? Come on, George.” 

The man who nodded to them in greeting from 
the head of the old Jacobean council table was in the 
middle forties, tall and well-built with the assured 
poise of the aristocrat. His eager, tense attitude, his 
clean-cut features, and his incisive gray eyes belied 
the touch of silver at his temples, and as he glanced 
about at his five companions—for the other three had 
already joined him—his dominance over them was 
apparent, widely diversified in breeding and type 
though they were. 

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Rex Powell’s crisply 
cordial tones held a note of reawakened purpose which 
had been absent of late, and Lucian and Clifford, 
recruits themselves from a higher social order, eyed 
each other significantly with swift anticipation. “Since 
we are all here together I suggest that we hold a little 
conference.” 


The Changeling 9 

“Holy Cat!” Phil Howe’s merry eyes began to 
sparkle. “Have we got a new case?” 

“It’s Ethel!” Henry Corliss folded his hands-over 
his rotund stomach with the contentment of utter con¬ 
viction. “She’s coming back.” 

“No, it isn’t about Ethel.” Rex Powell shook his 
head and for an instant his eyes clouded. Then he 
lifted his shoulders as though to throw off the burden 
of an unwelcome thought and added briskly: “We 
haven’t any prospective case to consider, either, but 
Cliff has decided to postpone his start for Atlantic 
City till to-morrow, and I’d like to discuss with you 
a new plan for reaching prospective clients. You re¬ 
call that when we founded The Shadowers we sent out 
five hundred engraved notes announcing our special 
line of service to as many matrons of exclusive posi¬ 
tion, and an equal number of circulars to financiers 
here in the East?” 

“Yes, and remember what we made out of the first 
three cases alone!” George Roper gazed ceilingward 
in complacent reminiscence. “That affair of the three 
Burning Black Pearls alone brought each of us more 
than any individual haul we ever made in our lives, 
and solving the problem of the disappearing safe was 
a moral satisfaction, as well as highly remunerative, 
though Ethel did very nearly spoil the game for us. 
As Luce says, it was all due to you, Rex.” 

“That is true.” Lucian Baynes nodded. “If Rex 
has a new plan now, though, for heaven’s sake let us 
try it! We’ve had no case of even superficial interest 


10 The Handwriting on the Wall 

since the matter of the Merrington Blue Diamond and 
the gruesome schemes of that dealer in death—!” 

“Say, whatta you expect in less than a year?” Phil 
Howe demanded. “Rex did a lot more than just get 
us together. Weren’t these offices all his idea, with 
the mechanical arrangements—the dictaphones that 
let us hear in our rooms what goes on in this one 
and the noiseless panels instead of doors; to say noth¬ 
ing of the ticker Ethel used to operate from the hid¬ 
den keyboard on her knees, that reeled off on the 
strip of paper through the slot in the wall here her 
own opinion of our clients while she was pumping 
them in the anteroom?” 

“They are all useful, but not as important as the 
contrivances for quickly changing the aspect of this 
room so as to bring it into accord with the different 
types whose confidence we have to gain,” George 
Roper observed. “The psychology of it is perfect.” 

“I wish some of us had been gifted with enough 
psychological bunk to guess what Ethel was up to 
when she asked for a vacation right after we finished 
the Merrington case.” Henry Corliss sighed heavily. 
“Of course I handled that, just as Luce had taken 
charge of the affair of the Burning Pearls and Phil 
was our boss in the investigation into that old rascal’s 
safe. It was my fault that Ethel wanted to leave 
us four months ago, for I got her to dye her hair and 
pose as a refined beauty expert up in Millerstown 
to get the gossip from the blue-blooded dames and 
find out who was sending those poison pen letters; 


The Changeling 11 

but I don’t believe she went away to educate herself 
or hide till her hair got yellow again, either! If we 
only knew—!” 

His utterance was cut off as abruptly as though a 
hand had suddenly closed about his fat throat, for 
a peculiar sound had broken in upon it—a sound un¬ 
heard in that quiet room for four long months. It 
was a faint, metallic ticking and it seemed to come 
from the wall separating them from the anteroom. 

“Gawd!” Phil Howe muttered under his breath. 
“Something’s working Ethel’s ticker!” 

No one echoed his exclamation, but all eyes turned 
in the direction from which the staccato click came, 
and Henry pushed back his chair, his round, genial 
face paling. George Roper stopped him with a hur¬ 
ried gesture. 

A small slit had opened in the panel from behind 
which the sound emanated and a narrow strip of 
paper appeared, unwinding like a ribbon. 

Clifford Nichols glanced at their chief and then 
sprang for the message, smoothing the paper with 
nervously trembling fingers while his sensitive face 
twitched. 

“What in the name of—!” He broke off and then 
read aloud: “‘Young girl desires position secretary. 
Minds her own business, does what she is told, don’t 
chew gum, dye hair, or—’ ” 

“Ethel!” Lucian exclaimed, but Rex was the first 
to spring up and tear aside the sliding panel. 

In the chair behind the desk, with a small keyboard 


12 The Handwriting on the Wall 

on her shimmering brown-clad knees, sat a demure 
young person with a pretty, slightly flushed face and 
a smooth glint of golden hair, like spun floss beneath 
a small hat redolent of the sophisticated springtime 
of Parisian boulevards. 

“My dear girl!” The clicking stopped as Rex 
Powell took both her hands. 

“Ethel, where have you . . . ?” 

“How could you . . . ?” 

“Why didn’t you let us know . . . !” 

“Four whole months ... !” 

“Gee, ain’t we grand!” 

The remaining five Shadowers spoke almost in uni¬ 
son with their leader as they crowded about her, but 
Ethel Jepson raised guileless blue eyes to Rex’s face. 

“I didn’t know whether you’d want me to come back 
or not, but I just couldn’t stay away a day longer!” 
she said. 

“Not want you!” Rex echoed reproachfully. 
“We’ve been worried to death! Where have you 
been—?” 

He stopped abruptly, for a tawny, silky ball of 
malign fury had darted out from under her chair 
and launched itself upon him with a high-pitched 
snarl. 

“Come here, Wee Sing.” Ethel picked the diminu¬ 
tive dog up and tucked it under her arm with an air 
of unconcern as she rose, but her flush had deepened. 
“May I put him in Mr. Corliss’ laboratory until I 
go home? We won’t hear him howl in there.” 


The Changeling 13 

“Of course, Ethel. Did you bring him for me to 
experiment on?” Henry pushed open the panel lead¬ 
ing to his sanctum. 

“No, I didn’t,” she replied, as literally as of old. 
“I brought him because he bit Mrs. Gorham and she’s 
in hysterics. I don’t dare leave him at home till he 
gets used to the maids.” 

Dropping her still snarling burden on the laboratory 
floor, she closed the panel and turned to precede the 
others into Rex’s study, while behind her The Shad- 
owers exchanged glances that spoke volumes. The 
Ethel of four months ago would have waited to follow 
them instead of tripping ahead like one accustomed 
to the niceties of social usage; also, she would have 
been incapable of uttering three consecutive sentences 
without interlarding them with colloquialisms. But 
there was a change far more profound and indefinable 
than mere manner and speech. This couldn’t be Ethel 
Jepson! 

“What’s the idea?” Phil Howe demanded, unable 
to restrain his curiosity. “Why* the tough Peke, and 
who’s Mrs. Gorham, and where do ‘the maids’ come 
in? You talk like a million, and you look like twice 
as much!” 

“Wee Sing isn’t tough, he’s just temperamental.” 
Ethel Jepson lifted thin, arched brows. “Mrs. Gor¬ 
ham is my chaperone, and the maids—” 

“Lord-A’mighty!” Henry Corliss sat down sud¬ 
denly in his chair at the council table as though his 
short, plump legs had failed him. “ ‘Chaperone!’ 


14 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Ain’t you living downtown with that old woman—?” 

“No, I found a position for her as housekeeper. 
Mrs. Gorham knows I’m private secretary to Mr. Rex 
Powell but it’s quite the thing for really smart girls 
to go in for business careers now and she doesn’t mind. 
She’s the widow of Talbot Gorham, if you happen to 
have heard of him.” Ethel paused and then her little 
laugh rippled out on the stunned silence. “It’s rather 
a jump from working only a year ago for Lefty Jane, 
but Mrs. Gorham likes me and I help keep her Park 
Avenue apartment going. I met her at Hot Springs.” 

“My sainted aunt!” Cliff Nichols exclaimed. 
“Mrs. Talbot Gorham! I heard that he came a finan¬ 
cial cropper before he died, but she is decidedly in 
society still. If she ever hears, Ethel, that you’re 
connected with The Shadowers and—er—what our 
former professions were—!” 

“She won’t,” Ethel responded tranquilly. “If you 
can put through your deals so cleverly that even I, 
working with you, can’t see how they’re done, there 
isn’t much danger that she’ll find out about any of 
us.” 

This naive tribute held them enthralled for a mo¬ 
ment and then George Roper asked mildly: 

“What were you doing at Hot Springs? Don’t 
you think, my child, you’d better come across and tell 
us all about it?” 

“I wanted to make a lady of myself, didn’t I?” 
Ethel smiled. “I didn’t know then that it can’t be 
done—not Miss Merringtoh’s sort, anyway. You 


The Changeling 15 

have to be born to that, but I did the next best thing. 
I went to a hotel and had my hair doctored, bought 
a lot more clothes, then hired a maid and went down 
to Palm Beach to meet my aunt.” 

“Your—aunt!” There was awed respect in Lu¬ 
cian Baynes’ tones. 

“Yes.” Ethel nodded. “She didn’t appear, of 
course, but a nice family did from the West, who 
thought everybody was in society but themselves, and 
they were so sorry for a sweet little thing like me be¬ 
ing unchaperoned that they asked me to join them and 
go to Hot Springs. They left just after I met Mrs. 
Gorham and I killed my aunt. That’s all, only I’ve 
been learning right along.” 

“I should say you have!” Phil Howe ejaculated. 
“That don’t explain the Peke, though!” 

“Oh, he was a—a present.” Ethel Jepson glanced 
down involuntarily at the bunch of valley lilies clus¬ 
tered about the single expensive orchid at her belt and 
then added defensively: “He likes me so I haven’t the 
heart to give him away— But tell me, have I missed 
anything big?” 

“No. You put the jinx on us, Ethel. We haven’t 
turned a trick that got us anything like real money 
since you’ve been gone,” Phil mourned. 

“Then I’m in time.” She drew a deep breath. 
“Something is going to break quick and I couldn’t bear 
to be out of it. That’s why I didn’t even wait till 
to-morrow.” 

Rex Powell eyed her keenly. 


16 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“How do you know something is going to break, 
Ethel?” 

“I simply felt that I had to get back to my desk,” 
she explained, adding with a touch of wistfulness: 
“That is, if it’s still mine. Am I—am I taken on 
again?” 

She asked the question collectively of her em¬ 
ployers, but Rex nodded with a grave smile. 

“Your desk has long been waiting for you, Ethel, 
but I want to know just what you mean about a new 
case.” 

“It’s intuition, I guess.” She spoke with serene con¬ 
fidence. “You needn’t smile, Mr. Corliss; a woman 
can tell when things are going to happen. I just 
feel as if we were waiting, waiting—!” 

“That’s what we’ve been doing!” Phil snorted. 

“I don’t know.” Cliff Nichols shook his head. 
“There wasn’t any reason for putting off my trip to 
Atlantic City till to-morrow, but I changed my mind.” 

“You see?” Ethel darted a glance around the 
table. “Mr. Nichols had a little of the same feeling. 
I thought so when I saw the Atlantic City address 
in his handwriting on the pad out there and then found 
him still here with you. I’m not just waiting for any¬ 
thing to turn up, but I know somebody is thinking of 
calling on us right now! A message is on the way!” 

Her clear young voice rang with sincerity and 
George Roper remarked solemnly: 

“My child, when the other members of this organi¬ 
zation retire on their ill-gotten gains you and I will 


The Changeling 17 

find a partnership. With you to read the future, and 
me on the outside to pick up the dope about our pa¬ 
trons, we’d gather in all the loose money in the 
world!” 

“Well, if anything’s coming to-night, it’d better 
start soon, for it’s nearly midnight,” Phil said skep¬ 
tically. 

“As late as that?” Rex pulled a small notebook 
from his pocket. “Just give me your new address, 
Ethel, in case we should happen to need you in a 
hurry, and then we’ll—” 

“Ah,” Ethel threw up her hand suddenly, inter¬ 
rupting him, for through the aperture leading to the 
outer office, which they had forgotten to close, there 
came the sharp, insistent whirring of the telephone 
upon her desk. “I knew it! Switch on your exten¬ 
sion, Mr. Powell.” 

In a moment she had darted to the instrument and 
picked up the receiver as Rex held his own to his ear. 

“The Shadowers?” A man’s voice muffled and 
shaking, as though the speaker were indescribably 
shocked yet retained sufficient self-possession to be 
cautious, vibrated over the wire. “I received a circu¬ 
lar of yours some months ago. I must see some one 
there to-night, within half an hour! I will bring a 
card.” 

“What is the name, please?” Ethel asked calmly. 

“I will bring a card!” the voice repeated with aug¬ 
mented emphasis. “Put me on to some one in charge 
at once! This is a matter which cannot wait!” 


18 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Ethel glanced over her shoulder into the inner room 
and Rex Powell gestured peremptorily. After a mo¬ 
ment he spoke into the transmitter. 

“This is the president of The Shadowers. You 
wish an appointment at this hour? We were just 
leaving and it is rather against our rules—” 

“‘Rules?’ ” The voice broke suddenly, harshly. 
“I must notify others later— others —do you under¬ 
stand? It must be done to-night! Unless I see you 
first it will be too late!” 

“Very well,” Rex replied with swift decision. “We 
will wait here for you.” 

Replacing the receiver he turned to the rest who 
were watching him in tense expectancy. 

“Our client cannot give his name over the ’phone, 
nor hint at the nature of his business, but he will be 
here almost at once. Whatever has happened, he 
must notify the authorities to-night without fail, and 
from his tone I should judge that the man is in a des¬ 
perate state. There is only one crime which our laws 
compel a citizen to report whether he wishes to or 
not—that is, with drastic penalties.” 

His tone was grave with portent and a stir ran 
around the table. Then Henry Corliss uttered the 
word in all their thoughts. 

“Murder I” 


CHAPTER II 


IN THEIR HANDS 

L ORD-A’MIGHTY, what do you suppose is 
coming now? Anyway, it’s good to be on 
a real case again, with Ethel out there on 
the job!” Henry exclaimed, and then chuckled. 
Ethel had remained in the outer office to receive the 
late-coming client and the panel between was closed. 
“I didn’t honestly believe she could quit us! Who 
but that darn little kid could dive right into the swim, 
as she has, and keep her head above water all the 
time? How did she do it?” 

“She answered that herself; by learning right along,” 
Rex Powell commented quietly, but he did not share 
the medical expert’s amusement, and Cliff observed: 

“Our little Ethel has been learning more than so¬ 
cial aquatics! If I’m any judge of toy dogs that 
abominable Pekinese is worth a cool thousand or so, 
and that corsage cluster rather outshines Henry’s 
modest arbutus. I fancy she has added more than a 
chaperone to her train.” 

“You don’t mean a john!” Phil’s jaw dropped. 
“It’s a complication of course.” Lucian Baynes 
shook his head. “We might have expected it before 
this, however. Ethel is so amazingly efficient that 
we have overlooked her quite obvious attractions.” 

19 


20 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Some one else hasn’t, evidently.” George Roper 
was beginning when Rex interrupted. 

“Nonsense!” His tone was sharp with unaccus¬ 
tomed asperity. “She’s only a child, with all a child’s 
adaptability and native resourcefulness, and there isn’t 
a trace of sentiment about her, thank heaven! Her 
life with petty crooks like Lefty Jane has left her sin¬ 
gularly unspoiled but it hasn’t tended to make her ex¬ 
actly romantic! We won’t have that to worry over!” 

Lucian glanced at his clouded face and then swiftly 
at Cliff Nichols, but before any one spoke again Rex 
leaned forward and touched the invisible spring be¬ 
neath his desk. The dictaphone brought to them the 
sound of the closing front door and then a voice, 
shaking but clear and distinct. 

“The president of The Shadowers—is he here? I 
have an appointment made half an hour ago by 
’phone.” 

“ ‘An appointment?’ ” Ethel Jepson repeated in 
very sweet but cool tones. “The members of the firm 
are in conference for the moment. Er—what name, 
please?” 

There was concrete evidence that she had not for¬ 
gotten the former precedure of temporizing with a 
new client while she transmitted her personal impres¬ 
sion of him to her waiting employers, for the faint 
clicking had recommenced and the ribbon of paper 
was unwinding itself through the slot once more. It’s 
message was not, however, in the vernacular of earlier 
days. 


In Their Hands 21 

“ ‘Stunning looking chap, smart dinner clothes, light 
top coat, London label in hat, well bred but dread¬ 
fully excited, wait.’ ” Cliff read the strip he had 
hastened to tear off and then raised whimsical eyes. 
“Our Ethel is learning punctuation but she can’t take 
the time for capitals.” 

Rex shrugged with an impatient gesture and the 
visitor’s reply reached them in a slightly more even 
tone. 

“I prefer, under the circumstances, to give that only 
to the person I have come to see.” 

“That is unfortunate.” There was just the right 
shade of impersonality in Ethel’s response. “Per¬ 
haps you didn’t know, but it is a rule of the office to 
receive no one without a card.” 

“I’ve brought one.” The man spoke with abrupt 
capitulation, and Cliff turned back to the panel, for 
the ticker was sending forth its message again. 

“Can’t hold him much longer, keeps looking back 
at door as if expecting somebody to follow, name on 
card ‘Richard Monckton.’ ” 

Cliff’s voice dropped oddly as he uttered the last 
words and Lucian frowned, but Rex shook his head in 
quick dissent. To Henry, George and Phil the name 
patently meant nothing. 

“I have had no instructions to announce you, Mr. 
Monckton. Is the matter pressing?” Ethel asked 
with well-assumed hesitation. 

“It is—vital!” The voice grew suddenly hoarse 
as it had over the wire an hour before. “I’ve got to 


22 The Handwriting on the Wall 

see some one in authority here without a moment’s 
delay! The chap I spoke to, if you will be good 
enough to take me to him.” 

“Just a minute, Mr. Monckton.” 

The ticker sounded briefly once more, however, and 
the fragment of paper which Cliff tore off and laid be¬ 
fore his companions bore just five words: 

‘Shot to pieces, will bolt.’ 

They had barely read the terse warning when the 
telephone at Rex’s elbow buzzed, and he took the re¬ 
ceiver off the hook in order to reply, although Ethel’s 
tones came to them all by means of the dictaphone. 

“Mr. Powell, have you an appointment with a Mr. 
Richard Monckton?” 

“If that is the gentleman who telephoned half an 
hour ago,” Rex responded, “I shall be disengaged in 
a minute. Ask Mr. Monckton to wait and I will 
ring.” 

His confreres were familiar with their chief’s meth¬ 
ods, of which they had spoken, of creating a light¬ 
ning change in the atmosphere of the consulting room 
to bring ease and reassurance to their prospective 
clients, but they were not wholly prepared for the 
present metamorphosis. 

The leather cover was stripped from the table, and 
upon the ancient wood of its top were placed two 
colonial candelabra, a pewter tobacco jar and a colos¬ 
sal inkwell of beaten brass; heavy cushions of dull, 
crimson plush gave the chairs a somewhat churchly 
dignity and the turn of a knob beside each bookcase 


In Their Hands 23 

caused a curtain of diaphanous, diamond-checkered 
material to drop between the glass and the rows of 
volumes within, to give the effect of rich leading. As 
a note of seeming incongruity, Rex brought from be¬ 
hind the screen of Spanish leather a golf bag, several 
rifles and an armful of fishing rods, which he stacked 
in different angles of the panelled wall, and a touch 
of the switch extinguished the indirect lighting, flood¬ 
ing the room instead with the deep glow of bridge 
lamps which were hastily brought forward to com¬ 
plete the illusion. 

“I fancied so.” Lucian nodded reminiscently. 

“Colonial relics, modern luxury, golf, hunting, fish¬ 
ing—!” George gazed about him bewilderedly, and 
Phil Howe demanded: 

“Who is this guy, anyway?” 

“I think we’re ready to receive him now.” Rex 
seemed not to have heard the question. “You boys 
go into your own rooms and turn on the dictaphones. 
If there is anything special in any of your lines be 
ready for the buzzer.” He took up the receiver once 
more. “Miss Jepson, I’ll see Mr. Monckton now.” 

The other panels closed as that leading into the 
anteroom opened and a young man appeared. He 
was undeniably good-looking, as Ethel had commented, 
and his distinguished appearance was heightened not 
so much by his faultless attire as by the natural poise 
of the trained athlete, despite the supreme agitation 
he was obviously trying to control. His blue eyes 
were well spaced above a short, straight nose and his 



24 The Handwriting on the IVall 

slightly full lips and square, clean-cut jaw were firm, 
yet now the eyes were blood-shot, and the faint lines 
beneath them and from nostrils to the corners of the 
mouth were deeply accentuated. He halted, his gaze 
sweeping the room, and a look of unconscious grati¬ 
fication and approval displaced for a moment the 
hunted, harassed expression as he noted the air of 
quiet luxury and the careless evidence of tastes akin 
to his own. 

Then he turned to Rex and strode forward. 

“You are the president of The Shadowed?’’ 

Rex nodded and waved toward a chair. 

“My name is Powell.” He stepped to the panel by 
means of which the new client had entered and drew it 
almost closed, but a slight gesture invited Ethel to 
use the narrow aperture as a peephole. Then he re¬ 
turned and seated himself. “Over the telephone you 
told me that you would be obliged to notify others 
to-night of the matter which has first brought you to 
us. Am I right in inferring that you meant the author¬ 
ities?” 

“Yes! I have no choice!” Monckton clenched his 
hands and the line of his jaw whitened with the ten¬ 
sion of the muscles. “You knew that one of your cir¬ 
culars was sent to me last July?” 

“I directed that it should be as also to hundreds 
of others.” Rex smiled and bent forward confiden¬ 
tially. “It was not a mere circular, however; it was 
the proposition of a gentlemen’s agreement.” 

“And I’m going to take you up on it!” Monckton 


In Their Hands 25 

glanced once more about the room and then straight 
into the keen eyes across the table. “Your—er— 
proposition reached me on the eve of my departure for 
Europe and I tossed it into the nearest drawer of my 
desk at my bachelor apartment. I returned this after¬ 
noon on the ‘Tritonia,’ slipped through quarantine 
just before five and it was after six when I reached 
my rooms. I felt rather at loose ends, coming back 
after so many months to pick up the threads again and 
go on, and for the life of me I couldn’t help thinking 
of—my father.” 

His voice dropped with the last words and a slight 
tremor passed over his frame. Rex Powell waited and 
then tactfully prompted him. 

“Yes? That is natural, since, if I am correctly in¬ 
formed, you are his only living relative.” 

“The last of the line. It wasn’t necessarily the 
natural thing for my thoughts to dwell on him under 
the circumstances, however, for we haven’t spoken 
in six years; that’s why I occupied an apartment and 
he lived all alone in the old family mansion, built long 
before the Revolution. I seem to be a long time get¬ 
ting to—to the reason for my coming here to-night, 
but there are some things you must know in order 
to understand my position. There was nothing secret 
about our quarrel; all the world knows he wanted 
me to keep up the old traditions and follow in his 
path, and I couldn’t. I had to go my own way. My 
father never became reconciled and I hadn’t even seen 
him in six years; but I kept thinking of him to-night 


" 


26 The Handwriting on the IVall 

and the difference there might have been in my home¬ 
coming.” Again Monckton paused, but after a mo¬ 
ment he went on: “I was rummaging in my desk for 
an old letter when I came across your circular and 
read it over, then threw it aside. After I’d finished 
dressing I went to the club and dined, but all during 
the meal and afterward, when I sat talking with some 
old acquaintances, I was thinking of the past in the 
old house, and a longing to see it again came over me. 
The keys were in my pocket—I’ve always carried 
them about with me. They gave me an anchor some¬ 
how, if you know what I mean. I knew—I was sure 
—that the old gentleman would be at the country 
place up in Pocantico Hills for he went there every 
March and his habits never changed. I had written 
from abroad to have my car in readiness the day I 
landed, and about eleven I broke away from my 
friends and had it brought around for me. I drove 
alone up to the old house. You know where it is?” 

“Near the upper end of Bronx Park.” Rex in¬ 
clined his head. “It is almost as famous an historical 
relic as the Jumel mansion. But go on, Mr. Monck¬ 
ton; you went alone, you say. Did you find a care¬ 
taker there?” 

“No. There wasn’t any light except from the 
street lamps as I drove in the gateway, and that was 
lost at the turning of the road which led to the house. 
It was in absolute darkness but I remembered where 
the light switches were and turned them as I strolled 
through the rooms on the lower floor. Everything 


In Their Hands 27 

was in order and just as I remembered it, after six 
years; and it was strange to be creeping like a thief 
in the night over the house where I was born and 
had lived most of my life. That was the actual 
thought that came to me, Powell, ‘like a thief in the 
night.’ Just then I crossed the threshold of the din¬ 
ing-room and turned on the light. The sideboard 
doors and silver chest were broken open, and two 
great bundles tied up in tablecloths were on the floor 
at my feet!” 

“You had heard no sound, nothing to indicate there 
was a burglar in the house?” Rex’s tone had quick¬ 
ened. 

“Not a thing!” Monckton shook his head. “The 
state of that room, though, drove all my sentimental 
recollections out of my head and I dashed for the 
sideboard to find some sort of a weapon. The 
drawers had been pretty well rifled but I found a sil¬ 
ver-handled nutcracker, short but very heavy, and 
with that I went through all the lower rooms at the 
rear, after kicking off my pumps. I found a window 
forced open in the pantry, but no other trace, and 
then I rushed to the front of the house again and up 
the stairs, turning on the lights as I went.” 

“It didn’t occur to you to summon help?” Rex 
asked. 

“No. I wanted to catch the fellow before he got 
away, forgetting that my presence there wasn’t any 
more welcome than his! It was my house, the house 
of my people, that was being robbed!” Monckton’s 


28 The Handwriting on the Wall 

chin was outthrust in the low glow of the lamps. “In 
the first room I entered—it had been mine—the 
drawers of the dresser and lowboy and desk had been 
broken open and old things of my own were scattered 
about, personal stuff, that my father had evidently 
directed should be left undisturbed. It gave me 
rather a turn but I didn’t have time to think of that. 
I dashed into my father’s room, felt for the switch on 
the wall and then—then as the light blazed up I saw 
my father! He was lying right at my feet with a great 
smear of blood on the side of his head, and blood 
darkening in a pool all about him!” 

“He was dead?” It was an exclamation rather 
than question and Rex straightened. 

The young man before him shuddered uncontrol¬ 
lably, and for the first time since beginning his recital 
he lowered his eyes. 

“Yes.” His voice was a mere shaken whisper. “I 
dropped the nutcracker and flung myself down beside 
him, lifting his head to my knee. I suppose I must 
have cried out, I don’t know, but I realized almost 
instantly that he was gone. That queer waxen look 
had spread over his face and he was cold to the touch, 
and—and the blood was already drying. I’d seen 
too many men die in action not to know, and I was 
stunned, incapable of thought, even, at first. There’d 
been a lot of bitterness between us, every one knows 
that, but the sight of him struck down wiped it all 
away and I—I went to pieces for a minute or two. 


In Their Hands 29 

There wasn’t the least change in him except what that 
last hour must have brought and I could almost hear 
his voice again in my ears—!” 

He broke off and for a moment rested his head on 
his hand, half covering his eyes, but when he looked 
up once more they were dry and burning with a fe¬ 
verish intensity, and his tones were stronger as he went 
on: 

“I don’t know how long I knelt there with his head 
on my knees; it seems that it must have been for ages, 
but I suppose in reality it wasn’t more than a minute or 
two before I remembered the burglar, and laying the 
body down I sprang up to look for him. Powell, I 
searched every inch of the house and I’d known it 
from attic to cellar since I was a boy—every door I 
couldn’t open I broke down myself, and I hunted in 
every closet and nook and cranny like a madman! I 
think I would have killed him if I had found him but 
he had escaped! There wasn’t any other indication 
of his presence, and I had started to go back to the 
room where my father lay when I saw dark blotches 
of stains—I’d left footprints of blood from there 
beside my father! My socks were wet—horrible, 
and I remembered my old belongings thrown around 
in my room. I dug out another pair and while I was 
putting them on the sudden thought struck me of my 
own position in this awful affair; why, good God, I 
stood to be accused of my father’s murder!” 

He fumbled nervously for his handkerchief and 


30 The Handwriting on the Wall 

wiped from his forehead the beads of moisture which 
had sprung there while Rex Powell watched him 
closely. 

“You are the only one who, as far as it appears, can 
be proved to have been in that house with your father 
to-night—or rather, last night, for it is after mid¬ 
night now,” the latter said slowly. “It is known that 
ill-feeling had existed between you for years, you tell 
me, and you are his sole relative.” 

“His heir, you meant to say?” Monckton took a 
thin platinum case from his pocket and slowly ex¬ 
tracted a cigarette. Then his eyes once more met 
those across the table. “That’s it, exactly; the final 
damning point! Our quarrel was bitter, the definite 
parting of the ways, but he would never have dis¬ 
owned me. He was proud and I was the last repre¬ 
sentative of his house; he would never have consid¬ 
ered leaving the money and estates to any one else. 
Every one knew that I knew it, and every one must 
have guessed or at least suspected long before this 
that I am desperately in need of a very large sum, more 
than I could possibly borrow on my own security. 
When I notify the medical examiner’s office or the 
police, as I must without delay, think of the case which 
can be built up against me! Motive, opportunity and 
as for the circumstantial evidence—great heavens! 
It’s absolutely complete! Won’t it look to the author¬ 
ities, to every one, as though I’d trumped up that fact 
of the burglar, forced open that window myself, and 
tied up those bundles of silverware after quarreling 


In Their Hands 31 

with my father and striking him down? I’ve always 
been impulsive, with a violent temper; there are many 
who can testify to that, and recall ugly rows I got 
into the first few years after I left college. I don’t 
know whether even you can believe me or not, Powell, 
though I’ve come here to put myself in your hands, but 
I swear I didn’t do it! I swear I have told you the 
truth. I never struck that blow!” 

The hand holding the cigarette tightened, quiver¬ 
ing, and Rex smiled again reassuringly. 

“You would be showing rather a poor opinion of 
our ability if you came to us to find an imaginary 
burglar!” he observed. “That is why you have come 
to us, isn’t it?” 

“It’s my only hope!” Monckton exclaimed hoarsely. 
“In any case I should not have rested until my father’s 
murderer was found, and I wouldn’t have waited for 
the machinery of the law to punish him! Now it 
means my own good name, the honor of my family, 
and perhaps my life! The man must be found!” 


CHAPTER III 


THE WRITING ON THE WALL 

TE don’t know yet whether there was one 
\/\/ burglar or more, and there are many 
other points to be considered,” Rex Powell 
observed. “To discover an ordinary burglar, known 
in the channels of the underworld, should not be 
overwhelmingly difficult with the peculiar facilities 
at our command; but it may take time. Then, too, 
your own position may not be as serious as you im¬ 
agine. Did any one know of your sudden decision 
to visit your old home last night?” 

“No, but I was seen and recognized!” Monckton 
was still fumbling with the cigarette, tapping it upon 
the case, but his steady gaze on his questioner never 
wavered. “On the street corner not a hundred yards 
from our gates there is a little stationery store run 
by an old man who has been there ever since I can re¬ 
member. He delivers our papers and he was stand¬ 
ing outside last night and hailed me as I drove past. 
I waved my hand to him.” 

Rex frowned. 

“We have not a moment to lose, then. That was 
a detail you did not tell me, and there may be others 
you have overlooked. I want you to meet my col- 
32 


The Writing on the Wall 33 

leagues and repeat your story to them so that we may 
take immediate steps to protect you.” 

He pressed the row of buttons beneath the edge of 
the table, and as the others filed in he presented them 
and briefly reviewed the case to which they had al¬ 
ready listened. 

“Mr. Monckton, was your father in the habit, when 
he went to his country place, of employing a caretaker 
or private watchman for the town house?” George 
Roper asked, when they had heard his account with 
attention. 

“Always. Sam Haskell was our watchman for 
more than thirty years, but he died a few months after 
my break with my father, and I don’t know that he 
was replaced. With the development of the park 
many more police have been added in our neighbor¬ 
hood.” Monckton shifted his gaze to George. “I 
confess when the impulse came to me to go to the 
old house I never thought of the possibility of en¬ 
countering a caretaker.” 

“You say there were no lights from the house as 
you drove in the gateway; the gates were open, then?” 
pursued the cross-examiner of the firm. “Didn’t you 
think that strange, with no one in residence?” 

“No; I just didn’t think of it one way or another,” 
Monckton confessed. “I must have been in a trance, 
and my thoughts were only on the past until the 
moment when I entered the looted dining-room. If 
this seems odd to you, how will the authorities look 
at it?” 


34 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“We are taking that into consideration,” George 
assured him. 

“Did you examine that forced window closely?” 
Phil Howe asked in his turn. 

“Only enough to see that a pane of glass had been 
cut out and the latch opened,” replied Monckton. 

“There are no special means taken to prevent bur¬ 
glary? No alarm system?” 

“None. My father thought that sort of thing was 
nonsense. He was averse to change, to modern in¬ 
novations. The telephone and electric light were 
concessions on his part.” 

“Ah, the telephone!” Clifford Nichols interjected. 
“You called us up from the house, then?” 

“From the room where my father lay dead.” 
Monckton’s voice was lowered once more. “When 
I realized the position in which I stood the horror of 
it overwhelmed me! My intention had been, of 
course, to raise an alarm at once when I had satisfied 
myself that the murderer had escaped, but when I 
saw what it might mean to me I didn’t know what to 
do! I wanted advice, help, but my best friend, Brit¬ 
ton Langhorne, is exploring in Africa and I have few 
other intimates—none I could consult in such a fright¬ 
ful emergency. Then I thought of you and that an¬ 
nouncement I’d come across earlier in the evening at my 
own rooms. It seemed to be my only chance and luckily 
I recalled your name. I hurried back into my father’s 
room and called you, then I turned out the light, locked 
the door and—” 


The Writing on the Wall 35 

“Wait a minute,” Henry Corliss interrupted. 
“There were no other wounds on the body except the 
one on the side of the head?” 

“None that I saw, but that had been more than 
enough to—to kill him!” Monckton shuddered and 
passed his hand over his eyes. “I should say that he 
died instantly. His temple seemed to be crushed in!” 

“Didn’t you notice any weapon lying around? Any 
short, heavy, blunt instrument—?” Henry broke off 
and then demanded sharply: “What became of that 
nutcracker you took from the dining-room? You said 
you dropped it when you knelt down to lift your 
father’s head—” 

“Yes! I never thought of it again!” Monckton 
exclaimed. “I see what you mean! It was heavy 
enough to have caused that wound—God! If it’s 
found—!” 

He started up but Rex stopped him with a gesture. 

“It is quite as likely to count in your favor, in help¬ 
ing to substantiate your story. Draw the attention 
of the authorities to it yourself when the disclosure is 
made, but not in such a marked manner that it will 
seem like part of the plant,” he directed, glancing at 
the others for their approval. “The burglar could 
hardly have been supposed to carry it with him from 
the dining-room, and it would be too risky for you to 
attempt to clean and replace it now or to conceal it 
if there happen to be bloodstains on it. Absolute 
frankness is your safest play.” 

“You’re sure there was no other clew that you might 


36 The Handwriting on the Wall 

not have been conscious of noting?’’ Lucian Baynes 
spoke for the first time. 

“None!” Monckton shook his head, and then he 
gave a quick start. “There was something that struck 
me as odd for the moment, but it couldn’t have had 
any connection—! It can’t be that the murderer used 
the telephone!” 

“What is it?” Rex Powell demanded. “Was there 
blood on it?” 

“Not that, but there was something written on the 
wall beside it—a series of four figures, some tele¬ 
phone number, evidently. I noticed it as I hung up the 
receiver after calling you,” Monckton replied slowly, 
in a dazed fashion, as though he were striving to re¬ 
call the circumstances in every detail. “My father 
preferred a wall instrument to the movable type and 
the extension was so installed in his room. The paper 
there is a plain light gray, and the writing had been 
done with a soft pencil. What were those figures? 
If I could only remember them! I know the number 
was one that I didn’t recognize and no central ex¬ 
change had been put down after it. It was nine, nine 
—no, that was at the end! Ah, I have it now! Six- 
o-nine-nine! I can see it as plainly as though it were 
before me again!” 

“Was the hand in which they were written familiar 
to you?” Clifford Nichols asked eagerly. “Can you 
recall the formation of the numbers and describe 
them?” 

“I think so.” Monckton’s forehead wrinkled. 


The IVriting on the Wall 37 

“They were scrawled in a peculiar, aimless hand with 
open loops and wavering downstrokes. The two in 
the middle were almost overlapping, the end ones 
widely spaced and all four straggled downward in an 
uneven line; but the pencil had been pressed so sharply 
into the wall that it had made indentations and 
scratched the paper and at the last stroke I seem to 
remember a deep gouge and splutter ,of dots as though 
the lead had broken short off. I can’t imagine why it 
made such an impression on me; it never entered my 
mind that the murderer might have written the num¬ 
bers there; but I wondered who did, for my father 
would not have done such a slovenly thing. No one 
else ever went into his room except Jim Ricks, his 
valet, and the chambermaid, and neither of them 
would have used his telephone; the main instrument 
is down in the hall, in the stair closet which is ar¬ 
ranged as a booth. Do you think it could possibly 
have been the burglar?” 

He looked again at Rex, who shrugged. 

“We have no way of telling until that call is traced 
and it won’t be an easy matter without the exchange. 
—Now, Mr. Monckton, we’ve got to be prepared to 
meet any accusation which may be made and so we 
must know the weakness and strength of the possible 
case against you. You must be absolutely frank with 
us or we can do nothing.” 

“I am only too anxious, as I told you, to place my¬ 
self unreservedly in your hands!” the new client de¬ 
clared. 


38 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“You spoke before of being in serious financial dif¬ 
ficulties,” Rex resumed. “Please tell us exactly what 
these difficulties are and why it is generally known?” 

“To do that Fd better go back to the quarrel with 
my father, though it’s indescribably painful for me to 
speak of it now.” His voice trembled slightly again 
as he went on: “Frankly, although I am deeply 
shocked and grieved, I can’t pretend that my sorrow 
is as deep as it would be if we had been more con¬ 
genial. My father was a splendid character in every 
way and it is a reflection on me that from my earliest 
recollections we have been diametrically opposed to 
each other. Our tastes and views and sense of values 
—why, we never even thought alike! It was natural 
that he should have lived in the past and its traditions, 
particularly as he grew older, but I am of the present 
day and we always clashed. There was no open rup¬ 
ture, just a continual, steady widening of the breach. 

“My family have been bankers since the first de 
Puyster Monckton, kinsman of Robert Monckton the 
English Colonial Governor, loaned capital and ran ac¬ 
counts for the Dutch settlers, and our private bank¬ 
ing house is now one of the foremost in the city. My 
father expected me to carry on with it after him as a 
matter of course; I knew that from boyhood, and 
I was resolved not to tell him until the time came that 
I could not accede to his wishes. It was a pity when 
the institution had been maintained in a straight line 
from father to son for all those generations; but such 
a career was abhorrent to me and I was utterly incap- 


39 


The Writing on the Wall 

able of assuming a life task for which I had no in¬ 
clination. Every instinct in me rebelled at being a 
figurehead, chained to a desk, when I craved adven¬ 
ture, chance! When I graduated from the university 
the question arose, but I put it off by pleading for a 
year or two of travel. Africa, the far north, the 
upper reaches of the Amazon—I explored for two 
years while my father waited, and then the show¬ 
down came. 

“There wasn’t any undignified row but it was all the 
more bitter because of that; a definite, absolute part¬ 
ing of the ways. I never even saw my father again 
until he lay at my feet last night!” 

“It was then, after the quarrel, that you entered 
Wall Street?” Rex asked. 

“Yes. My inheritance from my mother paid for 
my seat on the Exchange and left sufficient capital to 
speculate on a safe margin; but I’ve always been a bit 
of a gambler and last year I plunged—and lost heavily. 
It’s no secret on the Street that I was close to the wall 
when last summer I went abroad to try to form a part¬ 
nership with a house on the Bourse. I was unsuccess¬ 
ful, after all these months, in the coup I had planned; 
and I sailed for home this week, knowing ruin stared 
me in the face—and every one else knows it! Nothing 
but a miracle could have saved me—or a tragedy, like 
this!” 

“You are certain, then, that you are your father’s 
heir?” George Roper took up the interrogation. 

“There isn’t a shadow of doubt! He looked on 


40 The Handwriting on the IVall 

speculation as a particularly vulgar form of gambling, 
and he may have left his money in trust but unques¬ 
tionably for my benefit. I would rather have died 
myself than touch a penny of it!” Monckton groaned. 
“I would do anything in the world, anything, to bring 
my father back!” 

His tone rang with anguish and for a minute there 
was a pause. Then Rex remarked : 

“It is a great disadvantage that we cannot be first 
on the scene but we must defer to the authorities. 
You say that after ’phoning to us you turned out the 
light in your father’s room and locked the door?” 

“Yes. I’ve brought the key with me; it was in the 
door, on the outside. I descended, switching out the 
lights as I went, put on my pumps in the dining-room 
and left the house immediately to drive down here.” 

“You didn’t go the same way? It was late, but is 
there a chance that the old newspaper man saw you 
again?” Henry Corliss asked anxiously. 

“No. I turned south instead of rounding the block 
to the north as I left the gates and I don’t remember 
passing any one till I got on upper Broadway and 
then only a few motor cars and belated trucks. I 
drove as fast as I could without being arrested. Now, 
what do you advise me to do?” 

“Return at once to the house, but drive slowly 
enough to avoid attention and take a roundabout way. 
If you had not been seen in the first place we could 
provide a different story for you, but it is too late now. 
It was about eleven o’clock when you left the club?” 


The Writing on the Wall 41 

“Possibly a few minutes before. I discovered my 
father’s body almost at once and it could not have been 
quite twelve when I telephoned to you.” 

“It’s nearly one now.” Phil glanced at the ornate 
white gold wrist watch which he had purchased from 
his honest earnings as a member of The Shadowers. 
“Suppose the dicks do pull you in, how are you going 
to account for us when we get busy?” 

Monckton looked again at Rex, who said quickly. 

“Whether you are accused or not, Mr. Monckton, 
get in immediate touch with your attorney, after the 
authorities have taken charge, and tell him that you 
have privately retained us to find the murderer of your 
father; he must arrange for us to have access to the 
house and full opportunity to investigate as we please. 
One of us will be here until morning, when another 
will take his turn, and you can place every confidence 
in the young woman in the outer office who received 
you, at any time. If you should be held in connec¬ 
tion with your father’s death, instruct your attorney 
to communicate with us at once; or you may ’phone us 
in the presence of the authorities and engage us to 
investigate the case for you as though there had been 
no previous arrangement with us. Do you under¬ 
stand?” 

“Perfectly. My attorney is Grosvenor Hood, 
junior partner of Lyman and Hood, you know. They 
are not—criminal lawyers, but they will, of course, 
arrange for associate counsel if necessary.” Monck¬ 
ton winced as he spoke, adding: “I can see you take it 


42 The Handwriting on the IF all 

almost as a foregone conclusion „that I shall be ac¬ 
cused and I am prepared for it. Gentlemen, you be¬ 
lieve in me? In spite of appearances and the weak¬ 
ness of what I have told you, you don’t think me 
guilty of this hideous thing?” 

“We would not be willing to jeopardize our profes¬ 
sional reputation by accepting your case if we were not 
absolutely assured you had told us the truth,” Rex re¬ 
sponded gravely. “You are right, however; the surest, 
the only way to dispel the slightest doubt which may 
linger in the minds of every one is to find the murderer 
and prove his crime. It will be necessary, of course, 
for you to change your story in one detail, in order to 
account for this lapse of time. You reached your 
home, then, a minute or two after greeting your old 
tradesman and wandered through the lower floor of 
the house until you came to the library. There is an 
exceptionally fine one there, I have heard.” 

Monckton nodded. 

“It is considered a notable one. The collection 
has been added to from one generation to another.” 

“Well, you browsed over the books until now, never 
dreaming that any one else was under the same roof,” 
Rex continued. “Then you were thirsty and went to 
the dining-room, finding there the indications of an 
interrupted robbery. From then on your story is the 
strict truth; after discovering the body and search¬ 
ing the house you became conscious of the stains on 
your socks and, in horrified repulsion, you changed 
them for a fresh, old pair and then called up police 


The Writing on the Wall 43 

headquarters. Do so, the moment you reach the 
house now, be careful to put your pumps in the din¬ 
ing-room again. You may say that you rushed in a 
frenzy all over the house and downstairs once more 
before summoning them; that will account for extra 
footprints of yours in the dust that must have col¬ 
lected if the house has been closed for several weeks. 
That is all, now, but don’t delay. We will have fur¬ 
ther directions for you at our next conference.” 

“The—the fees and expenses—?” Monckton be¬ 
gan as he rose, but Rex waved the suggestion aside. 

“That can all be arranged with your attorney. We 
will take no active part until we hear from you again.” 

When their new client, courageously resolved to face 
the issue, had taken his departure George Roper 
glanced about at the others. 

“What do you really think of Mr. Richard Monck¬ 
ton?” he asked. “On one point at least he has not 
been frank with us; why did he go to that house last 
night?” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE SHADOWERS DECIDE 

H OLY CAT!” Phil Howe stared. “You 
don’t think he could have heard the old 
man was there and gone to have it out with 
him? He must have been pretty desperate, on the 
brink of going to the wall—” 

“Hold on, boys,” Henry Corliss warned. “Why 
didn’t you ask him straight out, if you didn’t believe 
him, George? We’re going to make a hard job twice 
as hard, by beginning to doubt him, and it looks as 
though we’d have our work cut out for us as it is!” 

Cliff Nichols and Lucian Baynes drew nearer to¬ 
gether. 

“It would have been a daring move for him to come 
to us if he had trumped up that story and fixed the 
evidence,” the former murmured. “He’d be taking 
a big chance, but he said he had always been a gam¬ 
bler.” 

Lucian shook his head. 

“It would have been more than a daring move on 
his part. It would amount to sheer brilliancy, and that 
I don’t think our young friend is capable of. He used 
poor judgment on the Street or he wouldn’t be in a 
hole now, for he hasn’t been caught in any squeeze. 
He was quick enough to grasp his position, but he has 
44 


The Shadowers Decide 45 

a single-track mind and when he realized the full 
extent of his predicament he could only think of get¬ 
ting help.” 

“We’re wasting time,” Rex announced shortly. 
“I’m going to send Ethel home now, but first let’s 
have her opinion; we’ve found it illuminating before 
this. Ethel!” 

The panel was pushed farther aside and a smooth 
blonde head appeared in the aperture. 

“Yes, Mr. Powell?” Her blue eyes were dancing. 
“It’s a whale of a case, isn’t it?” 

“It is.” He soberly repressed a twinkle at her 
lapse into the vernacular. “Sit down. I’m going to 
send you home in a minute to get some sleep, for we 
want you back here bright and early in the morning; 
but first we’d like to know what you think of Mr. 
Monckton.” 

“Well, he belongs.” She settled herself in her chair 
with a quick little nod. “I knew that when he came 
and I wasn’t suprised when he spoke of the genera¬ 
tions back of him. He had a terrible homecoming, 
didn’t he? Facing failure and then finding his father 
murdered like that!” 

The Shadowers glanced at each other and then 
Henry asked: 

“What do you suppose he would have done if the 
old shopkeeper had not recognized him?” 

“Just what he did do!” Ethel Jepson replied 
promptly. “He mightn’t have realized so quickly what 
he was up against, himself, but even if he called the 


46 The Handwriting on the Wall 

police first he’d have come to us sooner or later. 
Finding that circular again made us stick in the back 
of his mind and he couldn’t get here quick enough.” 

“His story sounded straight to you then, my child?” 
George Roper leaned forward. “Did it strike you 
that he’d added any details to it for our benefit? Do 
you think he told everything exactly as it happened?” 

Ethel laughed. 

“Added to it?” she echoed. Her face grew grave 
once more and she shook her head. “No. I imagine 
he left out quite a little—about himself, I mean. Of 
course, it won’t help to find who killed his father, 
but I’d like to know what he’s done the last few 
years besides lose money in the stock market.” 

“He belongs to all the good clubs, town and 
country.” Rex’s eyes narrowed. “He goes with the 
right people though he doesn’t appear to devote him¬ 
self to society; his name appears only at the larger 
functions. He’s an opera subscriber but I don’t think 
he aspires to be a patron of any of the arts, and I 
never heard of his being interested in politics to any 
extent.” 

“That’s what I mean.” Ethel nodded again. “We 
know what he doesn’t do, but not what he does.” 

“I think he has been absorbed in business. What 
are you getting around to, Ethel?” 

“What he didn’t tell us!” A faint reminder of the 
old, impish grin wreathed her lips for an instant. 
“He felt lonesome and blue and sentimental when he 
landed, didn’t he? He was hunting for an old letter 


The Shadowers Decide 47 

when he came across our circular; I wonder who that 
letter was from?” 

“By Jove!” Lucian Baynes ejaculated under his 
breath. “Of course it hasn’t anything to do with the 
murder, as you say, but it’s curious none of us thought 
of that!” 

“Memories took him back to the old house, too, 
though he hadn’t set foot in it for six years; but they 
weren’t memories of any boyhood business!” pur¬ 
sued Ethel. “If his father was killed by a burglar, 
well and good; but what if it was a different sort of 
person his father surprised there, who killed him and 
then planted that fake robbery evidence? He may 
suspect somebody and not have any idea how to bring 
it home to him. He was telling the truth, though; 
there isn’t any question of that!” 

“How do you know?” Rex Powell demanded. 

“I don’t!” she retorted. “It’s just some more of 
that intuition I was talking about before, I guess. Did 
you ever notice that, when a person is trying to put 
something over and act perfectly at ease, they al¬ 
ways try to do a dozen things at once and their eyes 
travel a mile a minute? They fiddle with their cuffs 
or tie, or the arms of the chair, and smoke and cough 
and change color, and never look you straight in the 
eye. He never took his off you when he was telling 
his story first, and he helped himself to a cigarette 
without even being conscious of it. I noticed that 
because he didn’t smoke it, though the matches were 
right in front of him here on the table; he only twisted 


48 The Handwriting on the Wall 

it in his fingers and tapped it on the case, and then he 
dropped it. See! It’s there now, by Mr. Corliss!” 

She reached forward and picked up the slender, 
monogrammed cigarette. It was bent and the tobacco 
spilled from each end. 

“He was in such dead earnest that, after you called 
in the others and they began questioning him, he 
looked straight at each one as they spoke. He had 
just one thing on his mind—to tell the truth and make 
you believe it and help him!” 

Cliff Nichols stirred impatiently. 

“But the writing—the writing on the wall!” he ex¬ 
claimed. “What did you make of that?” 

“A lot—or nothing,” Ethel replied enigmatically. 
“If it can’t be traced to one of the servants, I know 
what I’d do! I’d call up six-o-nine-nine at every ex¬ 
change in the city and suburbs, and find out what’s at 
the other end of the line! Whoever wrote it there 
didn’t do it for fun; it was given to them over the 
’phone and they put it down so that they wouldn’t 
forget it. There’s something else, too; you don’t 
mind?” 

She had turned once more to Rex and he responded 
with a smile: 

“We asked you to tell us what you thought, you 
know.” 

“Well, I was wondering what the old man himself 
was doing there, all alone without even a servant, in 
the middle of the night, when he was supposed to be 
at his country place, and you heard Mr. Monckton say 


The Shadowers Decide 49 

his father’s habits didn’t change. I’ll run along 
home now, or Mrs. Gorham will think I’m lost!” 

She rose, but George Roper halted her on her way 
to the anteroom. 

“Wait a minute, Ethel. What did you mean about 
the letter he was looking for and the memories that 
took him back to his father’s house?” 

“He lives in bachelor apartments and you haven’t 
said he was married, so I was wondering who the 
lady was. He’s too good-looking not to be run after, 
besides being young and with all that family back of 
him, to say nothing of the money everybody seems to 
know he would have inherited some day. There’s 
bound to be somebody he is crazy about; he looks 
like the kind one woman or another would always be 
fussing over. He told you to find the murderer; but 
if I were you, I’d find the woman who is crazy about 
him and have a little talk with her. Well, I’ll get 
Wee Sing and trot along. I—I’m awfully glad you 
wanted me to come back!” 

When she had gone George gazed solemnly around 
the table. 

“What did I tell you? Not a thing gets by those 
round innocent eyes of hers, nor that quick brain! 
She’s got the psychology of Monckton’s attitude down 
pat and I’m inclined to believe she’s right. There’s 
a lot to this case, that only mighty clever handling 
will bring to light; a lot more than just looking up a 
stray thug*, and I flatter myself that I’m the one to 
tackle it. I’ll take charge of the investigation—” 


50 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Huh!” Phil Howe snorted in high dudgeon. “It 
don’t matter what the old guy was doing alone in that 
house, nor what took his son there, nor how many 
skirts he was chasing in society, or out of it! The 
father was there, he was croaked, and the evidence 
left lying around was too good to have been framed by 
anybody who hadn’t pulled off real jobs. The guy 
was clumsy and a dirty rat, to bash the old man’s head 
in when he lost his nerve and took his hand off his 
number, but he was a crook, all right, and I’m the 
baby to bring him in. When we first started this graft 
I vowed I wouldn’t snitch on any of my own kind and 
help to send them up, but this guy’s yellow and he 
don’t belong. I’d like to put him away myself and 
when I get him—!” 

“How are you going to do that?” Cliff sneered. 
“He left only one clew behind him—those numbers 
scrawled on the wall, and if it isn’t my case on the very 
face of it—!” 

“Your case!” Henry Corliss turned his chair. 
“It’s murder, ain’t it, no matter who did it, and mur¬ 
der’s my job! I’d like to know where you boys get 
off, anyway!” 

“It was a murder, yes, my dear Henry,” Lucian 
drawled. “Murder, because of an interrupted rob¬ 
bery. Has it occurred to your minds that the silver¬ 
ware may be a blind to cover the theft of some rare 
object of great value? De Puyster Monckton was a 
millionaire. That old, pre-revolutionary mansion 
may hold priceless treasure in the way of historic 


The Shadowers Decide 51 

relics and I ask you if any one is more fitted to as¬ 
sume the leadership in this case than I—?” 

“I had thought of directing the investigation my¬ 
self,” Rex remarked. “I’ve worked with each one of 
you at some time or other and this has so many as¬ 
pects—” 

“My sainted aunt!” Cliff exclaimed. “You’re all 
right, Rex, and you’ve always played square and used 
good judgment, but I ask you if you consider your¬ 
self a handwriting expert? That’s what the affair 
simmers down to—an analysis of those figures writ¬ 
ten—” 

“A mere minor detail!” George interrupted in his 
turn. “When you’ve doped out his character and the 
color of his eyes, are you any nearer to finding him, 
provided the man who put down that number was the 
murderer?” 

“It takes more than a handwriting expert, my dear 
Clifford!” Lucian turned to him. “De Puyster Monck- 
ton was not killed for a mere armful of old silver¬ 
ware !” 

Phil flung himself out of his chair. 

“It’s robbery! Robbery!” he cried. “You guys are 
all trying to horn in on my game! There’s no art 
bunk about this, just a plain crook turned killer in a 
tight pinch!” 

“It’s murder!” Henry’s small eyes reddened. 
“What did I join you fellows for, anyway? We were 
each to stick to our own line, that was the agreement 
when we started. The Shadowers, and each of us was 


52 The Handwriting on the Wall 

to take complete charge of the cases that belonged 
to his department with the others working under him. 
First and foremost, this is a death under mysterious 
circumstances, to say the least, and it’s my meat!” 

“The fact of the murder itself and the direct cause 
of death is plain enough, Henry.” Rex shook his 
head. “It’s an interesting problem, with possibilities 
that appeal to all of us, but I’m not going to retreat 
from my position. We don’t want to fail now and 
frankly I believe that I am the only one unprejudiced 
enough to look at this from all its angles—” 

“Listen to me, all of you!” Cliff rose and faced 
the semi-circle of flushed, angry countenances. “It’s a 
case of murder, yes, and presumably murder by a thief 
caught in the act. With that as a working hypoth¬ 
esis, what have we to go on? There’s just one clew 
to the murderer, his handwriting! The handwriting 
on the wall! There’s a fine old name at stake, and 
the honor, perhaps the life, of the last of the line, 
but more than that there’s a killer loose in the world! 
The only way to reach him is through the evidence 
left by his own hand. There’s no question of it—he 
used the ’phone and wrote down those figures and 
it’s that alone that will put him in our hands! I’m 
as jealous of our success as Rex or any of you and 
I’m not looking for power or dictatorship; I sat back 
with Rex and George while Lucian, then Phil, and 
then Henry, each took charge of a case and brought 
it to a brilliant conclusion; and I worked under orders 
as cheerfully and faithfully as any of the rest, but now 


The Shadowers Decide 53 

it is my turn! This whole mystery hinges on hand¬ 
writing and I ask that you give it to me!” 

His eyes were glowing with an eager light, his sen¬ 
sitive face working uncontrollably and he paused, 
waiting. Then in the silence that followed his appeal 
the telephone sounded like a sharp note of warning. 

Rex sprang to reply to it and Monckton’s voice 
came over the wire. 

“The Shadowers? Powell?—I’ve just reached the 
house, and the ’phone was ringing as I entered the 
door!” 

“The ’phone!” Rex echoed. “You didn’t answer 
it?” 

“No, I waited until it stopped, to call you. It was 
the extension in my father’s room! Great God, do 
you know what it means? The house has been closed, 
every one knows that! That fellow must have used 
the telephone after all, and the other party is trying 
to ring him back! The party who gave him that num¬ 
ber he wrote on the wall! What shall I do?” 

“Call up headquarters now! Now, do you hear? 
Carry out our instructions! Notify them at once!” 

He jammed the receiver on its hook and turned to 
the others. 

“Gentlemen, Cliff is right. It is a handwriting 
case, after all, and he alone can solve it. Clifford, 
The Shadowers are at your service!” 


CHAPTER V 


CLIFFORD IN COMMAND 

T HE streets had just begun to teem and clatter 
with the day’s business, when Ethel Jepson en¬ 
tered the office of The Shadowers, fresh and 
blooming in her chic little blue hat and frock, with a 
delicately glowing mass of sweet peas at her belt, to 
soften its trim severity. 

Some sixth sense warned her that she was not alone 
in the suite, and she moved to the panel at her left, 
which opened into George Roper’s seance chamber, 
and pushed it softly aside. 

There on the low Turkish divan, with a gorgeous 
mandarin robe thrown over his feet, lay Rex Powell. 
His coat and collar had been removed, and the shirt- 
band turned in at the neck revealed the strong, straight 
lines of his throat, while his face in repose bore an 
almost boyish expression that smoothed away the lines, 
few but inevitable, which the lawless years had graven 
there. 

Ethel eyed him wistfully for a moment then tip¬ 
toed out and through the empty laboratory on the 
right of her desk into Clifford’s windowless study. 
He was bending over the table under a strong light, 
absorbed in a great volume filled with rows of figures 
varyingly spaced and of widely differing character, 
54 


Clifford in Command 55 

and he looked up with a wearily drawn smile, although 
his eyes still burned with an undiminished light. 

“Is it morning already?’’ he asked. 

“Nearly nine o’clock,” Ethel nodded. “Did any¬ 
thing more happen after I went home?” 

“No. It looks as though our client’s fears had 
been confirmed. That’s why Rex stayed here all night. 
He’s asleep now in George’s room.” 

“I know. I saw him just now.” She turned but 
paused. “I thought Mr. Powell said for him to call 
up here at once if he was arrested.” 

“Or have his attorney come to us, and I fancy he 
thought that best; we ought to hear from him any 
minute.” Cliff Nichols replaced the volume on the 
shelf and took down another. “I’m taking charge of 
this case, Ethel.” 

“Oh, because of those figures written up beside the 
’phone?” Her eyes widened. “Will you have some¬ 
thing for me to do, Mr. Nichols? I’ll never try to 
take things into my own hands again, truly I won’t, 
and I might be able to find a trace of that burglar if 
I went back to Lefty Jane—” 

“Never that!” Cliff replied quickly. “I don’t know 
yet whether there will be any way you can help or not, 
but it won’t be by going back! You’re through with 
all that!” 

“I wouldn’t mind—there’s the ’phone, now!” 
Ethel hurried to her desk and took up the receiver. 
A dignified voice inquired if that were the office of 
The Shadowers and, on her eager response, announced 


56 The Handwriting on the Wall 

himself as Grosvenor Hood, the attorney for Mr. 
Richard Monckton, asking how soon he could hope to 
see Mr. Powell. 

“Right away, if you like,” Ethel replied. “He is 
here now.” 

“I shall be there in live minutes.” The gravely 
measured voice ceased and the connection was rung off, 
while Ethel turned to find Rex standing just behind 
her. 

“Grosvenor Hood?” 

“Yes. He’s coming right around. They must have 
pinched—arrested Mr. Monckton. Oh, please get 
Mr. Nichols to let me help!” 

Rex Powell smiled. 

“He must use his own judgment, my dear; it is up 
to him now. Our hands are all tied until we have 
seen Mr. Hood.” 

The latter appeared almost on the heels of his 
message. He was a man of middle age and command¬ 
ing presence. It was evident that he had dressed in 
some haste, and he bore a shocked, almost dazed ex¬ 
pression. 

“Mr. Powell?” He extended a long, well-shaped 
hand when Ethel had ushered him into the consulting 
room which had now been restored to its normal ap¬ 
pearance. “My client, Mr. Monckton, assures me 
that he has already acquainted you with the circum¬ 
stances which bring me here.” 

“Not with the further developments.” Rex waved 


Clifford in Command 57 

to a chair. “I infer that the authorities have taken 
the step we anticipated?” 

“They are holding Mr. Monckton as a material wit¬ 
ness but that is of course only preliminary to arraign¬ 
ing him for indictment. It is a grievous mistake but 
natural enough under the circumstances. Mr. Powell, 
we must prevent the indictment at all costs!” 

“That can only be done by finding the murderer. 
You have made arrangements for us to have access 
to the house?” asked Rex. 

“Yes. The police have been informed that you are 
investigating the tragedy on behalf of my client but 
they regard it merely as a gesture on our part. I 
myself have been all over the house and there is no 
sign of the weapon, no possible clew, unless you con¬ 
sider those figures scrawled on the wall may be an 
indication. Personally, I don’t believe they were made 
by the murderer; it is inconceivable that he could have 
had the temerity to use the telephone either before 
or after he killed Mr. de Puyster Monckton. I have 
come to offer you any help in my power and to tell 
you that any fee you may name will be satisfactory to 
my client. He has asked me to place this at your 
disposal for temporary expenses and you have only to 
let me know when more is needed.” 

He laid a check before Rex, and the latter smiled 
slightly as he glanced at its figures. 

“This will be more than sufficient, I think, Mr. 
Hood.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me a 


58 The Handwriting on the Wall 

little about the Moncktons, father and son.—But 
first let me introduce a colleague of mine. The others 
will be here later.” 

He pressed the buzzer and when Cliff Nichols ap¬ 
peared, presented him, adding: 

“Mr. Hood was about to tell me something of our 
client. Not the family history, of course, that is well 
known, but his affairs during the last few years.” 

“Really, I fail to see that they can have any bear¬ 
ing on your investigation!” the attorney remarked 
stiffly. “Mr. Monckton has already told you of the 
estrangement which existed between him and his 
father, I understand.” 

“Mr. Hood, we must judge what data will be im¬ 
portant to our work, and you have offered to help 
us.” Rex Powell’s tone was firm. “You knew the 
elder Mr. Monckton?” 

“Very well indeed. He was a splendid character, 
a gentleman of the old school, genial and a perfect 
host. In former years he was noted as an after- 
dinner speaker. The misunderstanding between him 
and his son was unfortunate, but inevitable with their 
warring temperaments. My client is impetuous and 
of a restless, roving disposition. He could never 
have settled to a career as a banker, and I think his 
father realized it in these later years.” 

“You saw him after the quarrel?” 

“Yes, I was a frequent guest at his house.” Mr. 
Hood had evidently resigned himself to the discus¬ 
sion and he went on: “Mr. Monckton knew, of course, 


Clifford in Command 59 

that I was his son’s attorney but that made no differ- 
ence in our friendship. Indeed he never mentioned 
the fact and his son’s name was not uttered in his 
presence to my knowledge during these six years, yet 
I am aware that he kept himself informed of his son’s 
general affairs—financially, I mean.” 

“They are in a crucial state, we gathered,” Cliff re¬ 
marked. “This fact cannot be concealed from the 
police ?” 

“Unfortunately, no. They will have access to his 
books, and will undoubtedly play it up strongly as a 
motive.” The attorney shook his head. “Accord¬ 
ing to them, the case is an open-and-shut one.” 

“All the better for us, since they will not be likely 
to interfere or follow our movements too closely.” 
Rex smiled again. “Mr. Monckton spoke himself of 
his impulsiveness and said many could testify to it. 
He recalled ugly rows he got into during the first few 
years after he left college. What was the nature of 
these rows, Mr. Hood? We must ascertain if Mr. 
Monckton had any active enemies.” 

“No active ones, I am sure, although that has 
nothing to do with the tragedy.” The note of aloof¬ 
ness sounded again in Hood’s voice. “He is the type 
that people either like or dislike heartily, but he has 
many friends, more than the average man.” 

“And those ‘rows’?” Rex Powell persisted. “Was 
’there any scandal attached to them?” 

“Women, you mean?” The attorney raised his 
heavy brows. “The name of none was publicly men- 


60 The Handwriting on the Wall 

tioned, but it was generally understood when he 
thrashed young Chester Norcross that it was because 
of the boy’s inexcusable advances to an actress, a most 
estimable person, I believe.” 

“Who was this actress?” 

The attorney’s lips tightened. 

“This old gossip is utterly foreign to your purpose, 
gentlemen, but since you insist it was Edith Leding- 
ham. My client was not at all interested, in fact he 
was then engaged to young Norcross’ sister and the 
fact that the affair was broken by mutual consent 
shortly thereafter lent color to the story. There was 
no other suggestion of that nature in connection 
with the later difficulties to which Mr. Monckton 
must have referred. One took place at a country 
club, a most regrettable incident, and another fol¬ 
lowing a polo match, but neither reflected upon him 
save as being almost quixotically imprudent. He has 
matured greatly in the last six years.” 

“Chester Norcross.” Rex glanced sidelong at Cliff. 
“You are referring to Wilmette Norcross’ son? He 
has been in several other escapades, if I remember 
rightly. As you say, however, these matters are be¬ 
side the point. Mr. Monckton told us that you do 
not handle criminal cases, but believed that you would 
call in an associate council.” 

“The best in America, if it becomes necessary, but 
we look to you to obviate that. It will not be enough 
to have Mr. Monckton released; he must be cleared 
beyond the peradventure of a doubt and the identity 


Clifford in Command 61 

of the real murderer established. The body has been 
removed for the autopsy, but it will later be sent to 
Pocantico Hills and the funeral will take place from 
there. Is there anything else you wish to know?” 

“Did the thief take anything with him from the 
house?” asked Cliff Nichols. “Has an inventory been 
made?” 

“Not a complete one,” replied Hood. “This cannot 
be done until the housekeeper, Mrs. Miller, arrives 
from the country estate. She has been sent for, to¬ 
gether with the butler and the late Mr. Monckton’s 
valet; they should get here during the morning.” 

“Mr. Hood”—Cliff Nichols leaned forward—“has 
it been ascertained yet why Mr. Monckton came to 
New York and when?” 

“Yes. I have had the butler and then Mrs. Miller 
on the ’phone and both gave me the same informa¬ 
tion; that Mr. Monckton announced his intention yes¬ 
terday morning, of coming to the city, and the coach¬ 
man drove him to the station to take the eleven-ten 
train. He disliked motor cars and never used one, 
except in an emergency, although he kept two and a 
station wagon for his guests. He said he might not 
return till to-day—Friday, and that is the last that 
was known.” 

“Are there any guests now at the country place?” 

“At Monckton Manor? None at the moment, but 
I believe quite a house party was to have been given 
over the week-end.” The attorney appeared to be 
growing more and more impatient, and now he voiced 


62 The Handwriting on the Wall 

a protest. “Mr. Nichols, may I remind you that 
every moment is precious—?” 

“Suppose we agree to expedite matters by eliminat¬ 
ing further argument?” Cliff suggested smoothly, and 
at the other’s shrug he continued: “Did Mr. Monck- 
ton entertain many house guests in town?” 

“Rarely, during the last six years at any rate. He 
gave formal dinners and received intimates for an 
evening now and then; that is all.” 

“In that case I shall want a list of all those who 
have visited Monckton Manor since he went there 
last month, together with the maids, valets and chauf¬ 
feurs they may have brought with them,” Cliff ob¬ 
served. “I would suggest also that you have a talk 
with the authorities and diplomatically plant a seed 
of caution, so that they will postpone the arraignment 
of Mr. Richard Monckton, for a short time at least, 
on the suspicion that you may have important informa¬ 
tion to disprove their theory after all. You have not 
told us what brought the elder Mr. Monckton to the 
city yesterday.” 

“I do not know. The servants could not tell me. 
I will obtain the lists for you as soon as possible. 
Can I tell you anything more?” He glanced from one 
to the other of them, and Rex Powell shook his head 
slightly. 

Cliff rose. 

“Not at the present time, and we won’t detain you 
any longer. You will be found at your office at any 
time?” 


Clifford in Command 63 

“Or my home or club; here are the ’phone num¬ 
bers.” Hood took a card from his case, wrote hastily 
upon it and handed it over, together with a handful 
of papers. “These are your passes for the town house 
and I have arranged for any members of your organi¬ 
zation to see Mr. Monckton in the Tombs during the 
customary visiting hours. I need not tell you, gentle¬ 
men, that this has been an indescribable shock to me 
and I shall anxiously await word from you.” He 
bowed formally. 

Cliff Nichols showed him to the door and when 
he reentered he was carrying a telephone book. 

“Rex, we haven’t any time to lose now. I’m going 
up to have a look at the Monckton house, and in the 
meantime I’d like to have you call up number ‘6099’ 
at every exchange in Greater New York. Ask for 
any fictitious person and ascertain what the address 
is, and whether it’s a home or business, house-wire 
or private. Get Ethel to help you, if you like, and 
the others also when they come in, and tell them to 
keep careful note of those where, any reluctance is 
shown in giving the address and name. Then send 
Henry down to the mortuary to have a look at the 
body and obtain a report on the autopsy, if it’s been 
performed, and tell George and Phil to join me in an 
hour. I’ll want Lucian to scout around among any 
society people who know him as ‘Lester Ballantyne,’ 
the art connoisseur, and see if he can get line on the 
Norcross family, particularly the sister Richard was 
engaged to, and you—well, would you object to try- 


64 The Handwriting on the Wall 

ing to pick up what gossip you can about our client 
and his friends?” 

He asked the question somewhat diffidently, know¬ 
ing that under the name which was their leader’s birth¬ 
right, yet never mentioned to The Shadowers, Rex 
Powell sometimes made excursions into the world 
which had known him before he turned to the dark, 
if alluring, byways of crime. He respected the latter’s 
reticence, yet before this Rex had been willing to 
bridge the chasm in the interest of a client, and now 
he nodded, smiling. 

“I understand. You remember Ormsby, who 
helped us out in that sanitarium affair? I’ll take him 
to lunch and I won’t even have to mention our client, 
for the news of the murder and his arrest will be in 
all the papers by then. When shall we all report?” 

“This afternoon, and here. What do you think of 
our friend Hood?” 

“If you want my honest opinion, he’d give the best 
of his practice to be well out of this, and he would 
wash his hands of the case in a minute if he could do 
it gracefully. As it is, we will probably be introduced 
shortly to an associate who handles criminal cases and 
Hood himself will retire as far into the background 
as he can.” 

“Meaning—?” Cliff Nichols asked as Rex paused, 
and the latter shrugged. 

“I think he is not at all sure that the police have 
made a mistake.” 

“And neither are you!” Cliff retorted in disgust. 


Clifford in Command 65 

‘‘Why, even Ethel could see that young Monckton was 
telling the truth!” 

“But not all of it!” Rex reminded him. “She is 
a mere girl, after all, and impressionable; Monckton’s 
good looks and personality appealed to her, she ad¬ 
mitted as much, and she’s prejudiced in his favor; but 
even that didn’t prevent her from noting the gaps 
in his story.” 

“Changing your mind about our little secretary, too, 
eh?” Cliff remarked innocently. “Beginning to see 
that she isn’t lacking in romance and the qualities of 
the eternal feminine, after all? I did think at first 
the evidence of the burglar would be ingenious, if 
it had been a frame-up, but I see now that it could 
have been nothing but actual fact. Well, I’m off. 
Don’t forget to call up those numbers.” 

The historic Monckton mansion was a huge old pile 
of gray stone and stout timbers, built in the square, 
compact style of the early Colonial period. Its great 
white pillars gleamed through the bright spring foli¬ 
age as Cliff’s taxi turned in between the high gateposts 
and scudded up the winding graveled driveway to the 
wide porch. 

A number of bluecoats and plain-clothes men were 
patroling the grounds, and a group of them, gathered 
on the shallow steps, separated and eyed Cliff curi¬ 
ously when he descended. A little of the old, hunted 
fear clutched at his heart, for less than a year ago 
he had been behind bars, serving the last of a two- 
year sentence because of a slight misunderstanding 


66 The Handwriting on the Wall 

about a check. Would any of these flatties spot him? 
Would they wonder what an ex-forger was doing in 
the guise of a private detective, and summarily escort 
him down to headquarters to explain? 

But with only a slight pallor marking his inward 
agitation he dismissed the taxi, and walking boldly 
up to the guardian of the door he presented his pass. 

“Shadowers, eh?” The plain-clothes man’s heavy 
features lightened with a derisive smile. “We ain’t 
run up against your outfit before, and you’ve sure got 
the short end of it this time! It’s all over but the 
shooting!” 

“So I’ve heard.” Cliff smiled broadly with relief, 
for there was no recognition in the man’s manner and 
only covert amusement in that of the others. “Got 
to give a client his money’s worth, however; that’s 
what we’re in business for.” 

“Good enough!” the detective laughed. “Squeeze 
him for all the mouthpiece don’t get! Go to it— 
you’ll find ‘shadows’ in there and precious little else!” 

He threw open the door and Cliff Nichols passed 
into the wide hall, ghostly in its summer floor-covering 
of white linen, with shrouded furniture and netting- 
swathed pictures and chandeliers. He saw a huge 
drawing-room and library on one side and across from 
them a vast room with an unbroken floor space gleam¬ 
ing like satin. Rows of slim Sheraton chairs were 
placed stiffly against walls that were lined with great 
mirrors interspaced with candelabra, and overhead 


Clifford in Command 67 

three enormous, cut-crystal chandeliers hung from 
a painted ceiling. 

Stately minuets had been tripped here by feet which 
had been dust now for a century or more, and, later, 
Virginia Reels had been in turn supplanted by the 
dignified waltzes of the Seventies, but surely jazz had 
never echoed profanely in these walls! Cliff could 
have lingered indefinitely, his sensitive soul alive to 
the influences of the past, but the sight of a figure 
in uniform, before a door further down the hall, called 
him sharply back to the present and his errand. 

Upon his brief explanation the officer stood aside 
and he entered a dining-room large enough for a ban¬ 
quet hall; but the drawers and doors of the rich an¬ 
tique mahogany sideboard sagged open, and the lid 
of the chest at one side of the fireplace had been 
twisted almost off its heavy brass hinges. Silver bowls, 
porringers and ewers with a cascade of small table 
service were heaped on two wide squares of linen on 
the floor. The burglar’s loot had evidently been 
opened for examination; and Cliff Nichols had stooped 
to examine it when a woman’s voice, full and rich, 
sounded from the hallway. 

“Richard Monckton—arrested! I never dreamed 
that it would come to that!” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE WIRELESS 


C LIFF NICHOLS hurried out into the hall to 
find a tall, almost classically proportioned 
woman, thickly veiled, standing against the wall 
with one hand resting on a high chair-back as though 
for support, and confronted by the heavy-featured 
guardian of the front door. 

Her face could not be discerned, but the splendid 
lines of her figure were ripely mature, and the bare, 
ringless hand resting on the chair was white and deli¬ 
cately veined. 

“Yes,” the detective was saying, “we’ve all the evi¬ 
dence against him and I expect he’ll confess any min¬ 
ute. You were the old man’s housekeeper?” 

“I am Mrs. Miller.” The voice which came from 
behind the veil was low and tremulous now. “I cannot 
believe—cannot realize—!” 

Cliff waited for no more. 

“Mrs. Miller?” He advanced with outstretched 
hand. “I have been waiting for you. My colleagues 
and I are working with Mr. Hood to clear young 
Mr. Monckton of this absurd charge. Allow me to 
introduce myself.” 

He handed her a card with “The Shadowers, Inc.” 

68 


The Wireless 69 

engraved in one corner and she took it mechanically 
while the plain-clothes man blustered: 

“Not so fast with that amateur stuff! We want 
a statement from this woman! Now, then, Mrs. 
Miller, you knew of the row between the Moncktons, 
father and son; you know the young fellow threatened 
to kill the old man—” 

“I know nothing—nothing whatever.” The card 
crumpled in her hand and Cliff Nichols felt an in¬ 
ward tingle of elation at the new control in her tone. 
“Mr. Richard Monckton has not lived here for sev¬ 
eral years, but I never heard either gentleman utter 
a word against the other. I was informed this morn¬ 
ing that the elder Mr. Monckton had been murdered 
by a burglar, and I have been summoned to take an 
inventory and see what is missing. I have no informa¬ 
tion that would help the authorities in any way.” 

She turned toward Cliff, but the detective took a 
quick step forward. 

“That’s up to us. When did you see the old man 
last?” 

“Yesterday morning, if you mean Mr. de Puyster 
Monckton,” Mrs. Miller replied steadily. “He sent 
word to me that he was going to New York and might 
not return before to-day. I went down to speak to 
him but he had no further instructions for me.” 

“Did you know he was coming here?” 

“He said nothing about his plans.” 

“When was the last time you saw Richard Monck¬ 
ton?” 


70 The Handwriting on the Wall 

‘‘More than a year ago.” It seemed to Cliff that 
Mrs. Miller hesitated the merest fraction of a second. 
“I met him on Fifth Avenue one afternoon and he 
shook hands with me and asked after some of the old 
servants.” 

“Not after his father?” The detective’s manner 
was becoming more truculent. “What did he say 
about him?” 

“His father’s name was not mentioned.” This time 
the woman’s gesture was final as she turned once 
more pointedly to Cliff. “Will you come with me to 
the rooms that were broken into upstairs? The din¬ 
ing-room will take longest—I understand from Mr. 
Hood that the silver was packed ready for removal 
—and I’ll leave that till the last.” 

Muttering, the plain-clothes man stood aside and 
Cliff accompanied her up the broad staircase. Around 
the turn of the landing out of range of inquisi¬ 
tive eyes from below she paused, and, with a quick 
movement as though she were stifling, flung back the 
heavy veil, revealing a pallid face which bore unmis¬ 
takable traces of former striking beauty, with fine, 
expressive dark eyes beneath strong, straight brows. 
This was a woman of character and decision, a woman- 
with a history, Cliff felt with swift conviction. Surely 
she was out of place as a mere housekeeper! 

“You have taken charge of Mr. Monckton’s home 
for some time, Mrs. Miller?” he asked. 

“For ten years.” She nodded. 


The Wireless 71 

“You must have been greatly surprised when you 
learned he was coming to the city yesterday.” 

“Why?” Mrs. Miller parried swiftly. 

“Because you hurried down to him immediately for 
an explanation.” Cliff smiled. “Mr. Monckton was 
a man of great precision of habit, and you couldn’t 
imagine what had happened to call him here, yester¬ 
day of all days.” 

“Yesterday—?” 

“The day on which his son was to return to 
America.” 

Mrs. Miller darted a quick appraising glance at 
him. 

“If he knew of it, it could have made no difference 
to him, Mr. Nichols,” she replied. “They’ve held 
no intercourse for many years, as you know, I think. 
I was surprised, for it was most unusual for him to 
return to the city when he was once settled for the 
summer. Even on important business affairs he al¬ 
ways summoned his attorney and the officials of the 
bank to him, and the vice-president has for long been 
the active head; but he didn’t explain and of course 
I didn’t ask.” 

She had spoken in a little rush and now she halted 
as abruptly and turned away. Had she told the truth? 
It was clear that she did not care to pursue the sub¬ 
ject further and as Cliff followed her along the hall 
and through an open bedroom door he realized that 
there was more mystery here than he had imagined. 


72 The Handwriting on the Wall 

The room was in disorder with masculine wearing 
apparel scattered about the floor from yawning dresser 
drawers and the ransacked closet. 

“Richard Monckton’s room?” 

“Yes.” Mrs. Miller looked about her. “It was 
always kept just as he left it when he went away, but 
there was nothing of value here, nothing but odds 
and ends of clothing, as you see. I infer from your 
card that you come from a private detective agency 
acting in his interests in this terrible affair: did you 
look about up here before I came?” 

“No, I had only just arrived myself. This is 
the room where Mr. Monckton was killed,” Cliff 
added, as they turned to the door of a larger corner 
room; but a glance from the threshold made it unne¬ 
cessary to continue, for the evidences of the tragedy 
were gruesomely apparent. A great pool of dried 
blood was clotted on the linen floor-covering and long, 
indistinct smudges of it led in double rows in two 
directions—past where they were standing out into 
the hall, and over to the telephone on the opposite 
wall. 

A low gasp of horror came from the housekeeper’s 
whitening lips, but Cliff, carefully avoiding the stains, 
walked quickly to the instrument. There, on the gray 
of the wall just to the left of it were the four figures 
scrawled in an irregular downward slant, as Richard 
Monckton had described them, the two in the middle 
run together, the “six” detached and above, and the 


The Wireless 73 

last “nine” a swirling, open loop, its straggling down- 
stroke separated from it and ending in a deep gouge. 

Drawing a sheet of tracing paper and a soft pencil 
from his pocket, Cliff took an exact impression of the 
writing even to the splutter of dots where the final 
stroke ended, and then with a sudden thought he 
stooped and examined the floor about his feet. There 
on its white covering lay a quarter-inch bit of lead, one 
end sharpened to a blunt point and the other broken 
short off, and with an exclamation of satisfaction 
Cliff put it in his pocket together with his own pencil 
and the tracing, and turned. 

Mrs. Miller stood where he had left her, staring 
down at the hideous stain, and her lips were moving 
although no sound issued from them. 

“The police contend that this proof of a burglar’s 
presence was planted,” he remarked. “It is possible, 
of course, and that it was the work of some one other 
than Richard Monckton, some one who fled before 
his arrival. He says he came on a mere idle impulse 
to see his old home again. Mrs. Miller, have you any 
idea of another reason which might have brought him 
here?” 

She lifted her eyes, darkened still more by pain 
but tearless and oddly bright. 

“No. It was natural enough, wasn’t it?” 

“You cannot imagine why his father should have 
come, either? Doesn’t it look like an appointment—a 
private appointment for a meeting between them?” 


o 


74 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“That is impossible!” The housekeeper shook her 
head decidedly. “They would never have met again 
on earth!” 

“You were present at the quarrel between them?” 
he asked quickly. 

“I was—in the house.” A deep flush suffused the 
pallor of her face and she bit her lip. “I should pre¬ 
fer not to speak—” 

“You realize, of course, that you will be compelled 
to do so at the trial, if it comes to that?” Cliff inter¬ 
rupted. “We must be in possession of every fact that 
the prosecution will bring up in order to help the 
defense to combat it. What did you know of this 
quarrel?” 

“Mr. Monckton wished his son to take a certain 
step which he found it impossible to agree to, and he 
was too excited to temporize,” Mrs. Miller said 
slowly. “He felt that his father had no right to dic¬ 
tate in such a matter, where the happiness of another 
beside himself was involved, and he knew it would 
mean the end between them. The talk took place in 
the library one evening and lasted far into the night; 
it wasn’t a quarrel; Mr. Monckton simply laid down 
the law and his son persisted in his refusal. In the 
end Mr. Monckton ordered his son to leave the house; 
he left within an hour.” 

“The happiness of another?” Cliff raised his brows. 
“What was the step which Mr. Monckton was set 
upon having his son take?” 

“To marry, or at least propose marriage to, a cer- 


The Wireless 75 

tain lady.” The housekeeper drew herself up and 
added hastily to forestall his query: “The lady’s name 
was not mentioned in my hearing and I prefer not to 
guess at it, particularly as none of this has anything to 
do w r ith the frightful death of Mr. Monckton. The 
drawers have all been ransacked, I see, and I must find 
out if anything has been taken.” 

With a shudder of repulsion she skirted the room 
close to the wall to avoid the brownish stains and 
moved to the massive bureau, while Cliff turned to 
an old rosewood desk between two of the windows; 
but the drawers were locked and had evidently re¬ 
sisted efforts to open them, as deep scratches on its 
smooth, rich surface showed. 

Leaving the room at last he followed the foot¬ 
prints in blood up the second flight of stairs until 
the smudges finally ceased; but there was further evi¬ 
dence to guide him, in following that frenzied search 
for the murderer of which Richard had told. Doors 
stood open everywhere, some of them with smashed 
locks, and the larger pieces of furniture which might 
have provided concealment for the intruder had been 
dragged from their places; but though he looked as 
thoroughly as his predecessor seemingly had done he 
came upon no slightest trace. He was descending to 
the ground floor when he heard Phil Howe’s voice 
raised in altercation and hastened his steps. 

“You’re crazy in the head!” Phil was observing in 
deep disgust. “Who’s this guy ‘Pete Hall’ you’ve 
got me mixed with? I was never on the force. 


76 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Hey, Cliff, come down here, will you? This flattie 
thinks I’m some friend of his.” 

Cliff hurried forward with a sudden sinking at his 
heart but he assumed an airly confident tone. 

“What’s this? Your mistake, lieutenant. Mr. 
Howe, here, has been my associate for several years 
in private investigation; we go in for cases that are 
usually settled without carrying them to the courts 
and it isn’t likely that you’ve run in to him.” 

“We-ell, it’s kinder funny!” The detective rubbed 
his chin reflectively. “I don’t usually make mistakes 
and I could a-swarn I had him right! Look here, was 
he workin’ with you this time last year?” 

“We were together, of course, in the same line,” 
Cliff assured him gravely and Phil’s eyes twinkled. 
The previous year at that time he too had been in 
prison because of the vigilance of a certain watchman 
in a rural bank, and “Pete Hall” was the alias he 
always affected when in the toils of the law. “Phil, 
come upstairs; I’ve something to show you. Wait, 
here’s George!” 

George Roper’s attenuated figure was indeed ap¬ 
proaching from the dining-room, and Cliff went for¬ 
ward to meet him, drawing him and Phil Howe into 
the library and closing the door. 

“That was a narrow squeak!” the latter remarked, 
a little shiver running through his tones. “He’s the 
guy that pinched me back in ’leven for drilling a can 
in a pawnbroker’s down on Houston Street. Phew!” 

“Never mind, now ; I convinced him, I think.” Cliff 


The Wireless 77 

Nichols turned to his second companion. “George, 
Monckton’s housekeeper is here and I wish you’d get 
hold of her and pump her; there’s something queer in 
her manner and she won’t talk very willingly, but I 
learned one thing from her—Richard’s row with his 
father wasn’t over his refusal to take up a banking 
career, but because of some woman the old gentleman 
wanted him to marry. The butler and valet must be 
somewhere about the place too, if they came down with 
her from Pocantico Hills. Take them separately and 
see what you can get out of them about old Monck¬ 
ton’s movements and his bearing lately. There seems 
to be something mysterious about his coming to town 
yesterday. Phil, I want you to look around down 
here, particularly at the stuff in the dining-room and 
the window at the rear which Monckton said was 
forced, then follow the trail upstairs; I want your ex¬ 
pert opinion as to whether the job was done by a real 
crook or not. In the room where the murder took 
place there’s an old desk with the drawers locked; 
open them if you can without leaving any marks, and 
take out any letters or papers you find there, but wait 
till the housekeeper comes downstairs again. Rex 
gave you my message to join me here, but did you help 
him with those ’phone calls?” 

“I did,” George Roper replied. “Phil didn’t get 
in till nearly time to start up here. I’ve had several 
bored housewives and irate shopkeepers on the line 
assuring me that they never heard of John Roberts; I 
chose that name because it’s easy to get over the wire 


78 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Rex is trying to reach his friend David Mason and 
Ethel announced the laudable intention of going 
through the whole telephone book, but she added that 
it was worse than the Bible; I never suspected her of 
religious tendencies before! Nothing promising had 
turned up when we left.” 

“Did you get a flash at those figures written up on 
the wall, Cliff?” Phil Howe asked when George had 
departed to interview the housekeeper. “Did it strike 
you that it mightn’t be a telephone number at all? 
You’re running this show and there’s no more kick 
coming from me, but I’ll bet you draw a blank over 
the ’phone! Looks funny, don’t it, that the two of 
them should have picked on the same night to come to 
the old home?” 

“There were three,” Cliff reminded him. “You’ve 
forgotten the thief.” 

“No, I haven’t!” Phil laughed shortly. “I’ve got 
nothing to say about him except he’s a poor judge of 
an empty house; his luck had sure run out on him!” 

Cliff Nichols glanced sharply at the younger man. 

“Are you beginning to doubt his existence too?” 
he demanded. “Wait till you see the loot he had 
packed up!” 

“I’m going to!” Phil retorted significantly. “If 
there’s another bull standing guard over it I’ll wait 
till you get him aside and hold him; he might be pack¬ 
ing around as good a memory as that first one, and 
I’m not any too anxious to renew acquaintance. I’ll 
watch from the door here till the coast is clear.” 


79 


The Wireless 

Cliff found it unnecessary to engage the policeman’s 
attention, however, for he was at the extreme rear of 
the hall deep in conversation with a stranger, a portly 
individual with short legs and corpulent paunch, 
dressed in the conventional blacks of a butler. 

With a slight gesture to the waiting Phil, Cliff was 
advancing toward them when the sound of a half- 
stifled groan came from the direction of the pantry 
and he hesitated a moment, then crossed to it and 
pushed in the swinging door. 

On a chair beside the glass draining-board of the 
sink a small, shrunken figure was seated, rocking back 
and forth with his gray head buried in his hands, and 
Cliff swung the door in place and then laid his hand 
on the bowed shoulder. 

“Look up, my man. You’re one of the staff from 
Monckton Manor?” 

“Ricks is my name—Jim Ricks, sir.” He lifted his 
head, pushing back the scanty silver lock which hung 
over his reddened eyes, and surveyed Cliff in dazed 
surprise. “What’s wanted of me?” 

“Oh, Mr. Monckton’s valet?” Cliff drew another 
chair from before the narrow table and seated himself. 
“Did you know that Richard Monckton had been 
arrested?” 

“I’ve just heard,” the elderly voice quavered. “It 
—it struck me all of a heap! A black day for him 
and all of us!” 

“The police are wrong, of course.” He watched 
the old man for a sign of assent but there was none. 


80 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Their ways are past me.” Jim Ricks shook his 
head. “There’s no telling what they may think they 
know! If I had thought Mr. Monckton meant to 
stay in town I’d have come too, in spite of him! For 
thirty years, since before Mr. Richard was born, I’ve 
looked after his father and never a night was he away 
from me before!” 

“You didn’t know, then, that he might remain 
over?” 

“I’d no thought of it! ‘Jim,’ he says to me, when 
he’d read the telegram I brought him, ‘tell William to 
bring the bays around at quarter to eleven. I’m go¬ 
ing to the city. Let Mrs. Miller know.’ I told her 
and I never see her so upset before; she asked me real 
sharp why he was going, but I couldn’t say and then 
she went down to speak to him herself.” 

The word “telegram” had made Cliff prick up his 
ears but he passed that question for the moment. 

“Perhaps Mr. Monckton told her that he might 
stay in town?” he suggested. 

“No, he didn’t!” The old valet shook his head 
again and drew his sleeve across his eyes where the 
quick tears of grief had sprung once more. “Peter 
heard what they said and told me later on when we 
began to worry. Short of coming straight out and 
asking, Mrs. Miller had tried every way she knew how 
to find out why he was going; but all he’d tell her was 
that he had been called in on a matter of business 
and she’d know what to do if any of the house-party 
that was coming to-morrow should telephone. Peter 


81 


The Wireless 

says he never see her so put out, and she snapped the 
maids’ heads off the rest of the day, and watched every 
train-time. ’Long about five she sent word to William 
to drive down to the station and wait till Mr. Monck- 
ton came, and he did wait till near midnight; she 
’phoned to the station agent to send him home then, 
but she’d called up every place she could think of in 
the city first.” 

“There was no news of him?” Cliff leaned for¬ 
ward. “Did she telephone to the bank?” 

“No, it was closed but she had Mr. Sanders on the 
wire—the lawyer, you know—and he hadn’t heard 
anything. We didn’t know what to think, but Mrs. 
Miller was the worst of all!” 

“She was very fond of Mr. Monckton?” 

Jim’s eyelids drooped as though in belated caution. 

“She’s been housekeeper for ten years. What are 
you here for, sir? Do you come from the police?” 

“No, my friends and I are private detectives help¬ 
ing Mr. Hood to free Mr. Richard Monckton,” Cliff 
responded. “He and his father didn’t get on and we 
know of the quarrel that separated them, but who was 
the lady Mr. Monckton wanted his son to marry?” 

“Miss Mary Andros? They’re a very fine old 
family, longer here even than the Moncktons, and 
Miss Mary would have been a fitting and proper mis¬ 
tress for this house, but Mr. Richard never took to 
her. He’s caused his father many a trouble with his 
wild, restless ways, though perhaps I oughtn’t to 
speak.” Jim sighed deeply. “We never thought there 


82 The Handwriting on the Wall 

was real harm in the lad but he got into more than one 
scrape that was no honor to the family. Mr. Monck- 
ton was proud and wouldn’t let anybody see how the 
quarrel with his son had hurt him, but I was closer 
to him than the rest and I could see how he grieved, 
though he didn’t speak of it—not once! To think 
that such an end should have come to him!” 

His wrinkled face quivered and Cliff Nichols re¬ 
marked hastily: 

“You spoke of a telegram Mr. Monckton received 
yesterday morning. Do you know who it was from?” 

Jim hesitated. 

“No, sir. It wasn’t a regular telegram; not the 
usual kind. It was like they send from the ocean, sir; 
a wireless.” 


CHAPTER VII 

THE RAT-FACED MAN 

H ALF an hour later Cliff Nichols unobtrusively 
let himself out of a side door of the Monck- 
ton house and proceeded on foot down the 
path which led to the smaller gate. He had learned 
several interesting facts, but none that gave a clew to 
the burglar, and he was anxious to attempt to trace 
the ’phone call without further delay. 

Twice zealous precinct detectives halted him in the 
grounds and again he was stopped at the gate, this 
time by a headquarters man. Privately he decided to 
avoid such risks as much as possible in future. He 
carried in his pocket a copy of the only clew the mur¬ 
derer had left behind him and he felt that he should 
require nothing more from the scene of the crime that 
his colleagues could not obtain. 

On the nearest street corner stood a small, brightly 
painted stationer’s shop with rows of magazines and 
pyramids of cigar boxes stacked behind the shining 
window, and a newspaper stand in front. Beside the 
stand stood a stout, elderly man with a round, good- 
natured countenance and protruding eyes, ringed with 
horn spectacles. 

Cliff paused to buy a paper and his glance fell upon 

83 



84 The Handwriting on the Wall 

the glaring headlines announcing the murder and sub¬ 
sequent arrest. He pointed to it. 

“Pretty bad thing that happened in the old house 
back there,” he observed. 

“Fierce!” The shopkeeper nodded quickly. “Both 
of them I know well, the father and the son. The 
papers I deliver there, and always when he drives past 
Mr. Monckton has a word for old Emil. He is like 
a burgomaster here in this neighborhood, where these 
many generations they have lived, and much has he 
done for us. I should like to meet the devil who 
killed him!” 

“You saw his son last night when he drove by, 
didn’t you?” Cliff asked. “It’s a good while since 
you’ve seen him up around here before that, isn’t it?” 

The protruding eyes stared behind their thick 
glasses. 

“How do you know I see him?” Emil demanded. 
“Me, I say nothing to nobody, I mind my own busi¬ 
ness! If you from the police come—?” 

“I don’t!” Cliff laughed. “Richard told me so him¬ 
self. He said he waved back to you when you greeted 
him and he hadn’t seen you since he left home.” 

“Six years.” Emil removed his spectacles and be¬ 
gan to polish them vigorously with a red cotton hand¬ 
kerchief. “So you are a friend of young Richard? 
That is different. When he call the cops and they 
take him, I say to myself, maybe I didn’t see him, my 
eyes ain’t so good lately and maybe it was some one 
else again. I read by the papers that he goes and sits 


85 


The Rat-faced, Man 

himself down in the library and reads for more than 
an hour and all the time his poor father is dead up¬ 
stairs ! So strange it is that he should come back after 
all this time on the very night his father is killed!” 

“You’ve been here a long while, Richard tells me,” 
Cliff ventured, with a glance at the name painted on 
the window. “You knew him as a boy, Mr. Deutsch?” 

“I did, and a holy terror he was before he was sent 
away to school; that tutor could do nothing with him 
and often I threaten to thrash him for the tricks he 
played!” A reminiscent smile wreathed the fat face 
for an instant, then he sobered. “Always running 
away he was, and wild for adventure! Such a boy! 
I am glad when I see him come home last night, I 
think then the troubles are over between him and his 
father; and when I see by the paper what has hap¬ 
pened I say I keep out of it, I know nothing, but it 
is a terrible thing!” 

“You knew the old gentleman was away, didn’t 
you ?” 

“At the manor? Last month he has gone, but yes¬ 
terday I see him come back; in an open taxicab he is, 
and I think it strange for he does not like to ride in 
them; also he is so occupied with himself that he does 
not think to speak to me and that isn’t like him.” 

“He was alone?” The question fairly leaped from 
Cliff’s lips. “What time was it, do you remember?” 

“He was all by himself and I remember well, for 
the delivery boy has just come back to keep store for 
me while I go to my dinner; it is about half past 


86 The Handwriting on the Wall 

twelve.” Emil blinked as he replaced his spectacles. 
“I don’t speak of it, though, to that other feller who 
comes asking me questions an hour ago. I tell him 
I ain’t seen none of the family since the house is closed 
a month back, yet.” 

“ ‘The other fellow?’ ” Cliff repeated. “Who was 
he?” 

“How should I know?” The storekeeper shrugged. 
“He is a stranger, I never laid eyes on him before 
—a thin, pointed face he has, like a rat, and his 
ears stick up. He is dressed all in gray with a gray 
soft hat pulled low over his eyes, and he talks with¬ 
out moving his mouth. Such questions!” 

“About Richard?” Cliff added with quickly assumed 
carelessness. “Maybe he was a reporter.” 

“No. It is about Mr. Monckton he asks, and he 
is more anxious than if he is only looking for copy for 
his paper—like maybe he knew him. He is sorry and 
worried, and it comes to me, this feller knows more 
as he lets on.” He threw out his hands. “Not about 
the murder I shouldn’t say, but somethings between 
him and Mr. Monckton. He hung around till I ask 
him what is it to him, this thing that has happened? 
Then he goes quick enough, in the direction of the 
Monckton house, but not to it; I watch and I see him 
go on past the gates. You tell young Richard if you 
go to see him where they got him; ask him does he 
know that feller in gray.” 

Cliff assured him that he would do so and took his 
departure, turning over this latest development in his 


The Rat-faced Man 87 

mind as he made his way to the nearest subway sta¬ 
tion. 

Who was this man in gray and what was his inter¬ 
est in the case? The storekeeper’s description of him 
had not been a pleasant one; a rat-faced man with 
protruding ears who talked without moving his mouth. 
The old German was plainly prejudiced, but surely 
the stranger with his hat pulled low over his eyes 
bore indications of being a tough, if not worse; what 
could there be in common between him and that not¬ 
able figure, de Puyster Monckton? 

The latter had come to town in response to that 
wireless message, so much was evident. If it had been 
sent at sea and he had come into town a few hours 
later to meet the individual who had despatched it, it 
must have come from an incoming vessel not far from 
its berth. Had another passenger ship besides that 
which carried Richard arrived the day before? Had 
the message been sent from the same ship, from Rich* 
ard himself? Did he intend to appeal at last to his 
father for financial assistance? 

The questions crowded each other in his thoughts 
during the ride downtown, but when he reached the 
office of The Shadowers he was no nearer an answer 
to them, and Ethel Jepson’s opening remark effec¬ 
tually erased them from his mind. 

“Everybody’s out, but they had a wonderful time 
calling up all those numbers,” she announced. “I 
shouldn’t wonder if Central thought we were all crazy 
here! I was to tell you that we’d worked down 


0 : 


88 The Handwriting on the Wall 

through every Exchange but these and I guess they’ve 
had about everything but the morgue on the wire!” 

She laid a slip of paper before Cliff Nichols and 
he read aloud: 

“Knickerbocker, Metropolitan, Cortright, Queens- 
bridge, Chatham, Parkside,—well, they won’t take 
long. Did anybody have any luck?” 

“Only in getting themselves disliked!” Ethel was 
fast becoming her old flippant self again. “The first 
person Mr. Corliss got on the wire invited him to 
come down and get ‘licked,’ and somebody asked Mr. 
Baynes why in thunder he was calling his wife up and 
then faking such a name as that when he got the 
wrong party on the wire. He had mentioned some 
wop—Italian, I mean—‘Tish’ something, and it did 
sound funny, when the family’s name there was Gil- 
hooley.” 

“Titian?” Cliff growled. “Confound his artistic 
soul! I’ll have a try at those other numbers myself 
later, but first I’ve got something I want to exam¬ 
ine.” 

He drew the sheet of tracing paper from his pocket 
and turned to go to his own study, but Ethel stopped 
him with a wistful question. 

“You haven’t anything for me to do yet? I tried 
going straight through the ’phone book but it isn’t 
very easy reading and with our client in the Tombs 
and no other case to bother with till we’ve finished 
this I’ll have a lot of time on my hands. I—I’d like 
to get in on this one with the rest of you—I just know 


The Rat-faced Man 89 

young Mr. Monckton told the truth and it must be 
awful to be in prison for something he didn’t do!” 

“There isn’t any way I can use you now, Ethel.” 
Cliff smiled at her as he shook his head. She at least 
had no doubt of their client, although George and Phil 
and even Rex appeared to be weakening, and the 
housekeeper as well as the old valet and the news¬ 
dealer were all three evasive and significantly non¬ 
committal. 

He continued to his own sanctum, drawing the panel 
closed behind him, and with his volumes of specimens 
and strong magnifying glasses he was soon deep in a 
study of the characters he had traced. The numbers 
he had meant to call on the telephone were forgotten 
and he was oblivious to the flight of time, until he real¬ 
ized he was hungry and glancing at his watch dis¬ 
covered that it was after two. 

He lunched hastily at a little restaurant across the 
street and returned to find Henry, George, Phil and 
Lucian awaiting him. 

“What’s doing?” he asked. “Henry, did you see 
Monckton’s body? Tell me about him; I thought 
there might be a portrait of him at his house but I 
saw none.” 

“He must have been a pretty fine-looking old scout.” 
Henry Corliss folded his hands comfortably over his 
stomach and settled back in his chair. “His blue eyes 
were almost as bright in color as his son’s and he had 
the same short, straight nose and chiseled jaw: I 
shouldn’t have taken him for a day over sixty but he’s 


90 The Handwriting on the Wall 

nearer seventy, from the records. He was a sturdy 
old chap with a splendid, muscular torso in mighty 
good condition. If he had half a chance I’ll wager 
he could have put some fight for himself, but that 
blow that caught him was a wicked one and cracked 
his skull like an egg-shell. The autopsy places the 
time of his death between ten and twelve last night.” 

“Which would be just as good evidence for the 
police as corroboration of young Richard’s story,” 
George Roper murmured. “How was the old boy 
dressed, by the way?” 

“Very good black trousers and waistcoat with a 
white hair-line stripe and an old black silk lounging 
jacket.” Henry fumbled in his pockets. “The body 
must have been left undisturbed where it fell except 
for Richard lifting the head to his knees, as he says; 
for he carried an old heavy gold watch with a chain 
and square topaz fob, a little over three hundred dol¬ 
lars in a bill-fold, and loose money amounting to 
about ten or twelve—yes, ten eighty-seven. Here’s 
the list. His links were plain gold but he wore an 
oblong emerald with the coat-of-arms cut in it that 
must be worth several thousand, at least, and these 
were all intact. Odd the burglar didn’t even stop 
to strip the ring off; he must have been in a panic.” 

There was a note of reservation in his tone and 
Cliff’s lip curled. 

“Meaning you’re beginning to think that burglar 
didn’t exist?” he asked coldly. “You might as well 
come clean with it!” 


The Rat-faced Man 91 

“No, I don’t say he didn’t,’’ Henry dissented mildly. 

I only say there are a few things that look funny, 
that’s all.” 

“And last night you were the first to remind us our 
work would be doubly hard if we didn’t take our 
client’s word in good faith; this looks like it!” Cliff 
turned to Phil Howe. “You examined the loot in the 
dining-room and the forced window?” 

“Yes. There wasn’t anything distinctive about 
those bundles of old silver, just a lot of junk from the 
sideboard and chest lumped together. If the guy was 
a topnotcher and knew the ropes he could have got a 
grand for it all told, maybe. The little window-pane 
just over the catch had been puttied and cut out clean; 
it was lying on the ground outside and there was a 
smudge of dirt spread around on the pantry floor that 
could have been tracked from the garden. Nothing 
like plain footprints, though. That desk up in the old 
guy’s room had been opened before I got to it, for the 
papers inside were all thrown around and they were 
just household accounts and receipts for upkeep—all 
except these.” Phil tossed a packet across the table. 
“I couldn’t make them out so I brought them along. 
I unlocked it easily with a skeleton and somebody else 
must have done the same thing or had a regular key 
that fitted it. A long-nosed dick from headquarters 
—a new one, thank the Lord!—came while I was 
there and showed me how the body was lying close 
to the light switch in the wall, as if he’d just turned it 
when he was cracked on the head.” 


92 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“I remember where the switch was, to the right 
of the door I” Cliff exclaimed. “If Monckton had 
come in and felt for the switch with his right hand, 
his left side would have been turned to the room, and 
the murderer lunging across from the telephone— 
Henry, which side of the head was the wound on?” 

“The left,” Henry admitted, but added doggedly: 
“If he stood with his right side to the wall like that 
a blow coming from any direction in the room would 
have caught him on the left, though. That’s com¬ 
mon sense.” 

“The guy knew how to force the window, Cliff, 
but it’s the easiest way known and described a million 
times in the newspapers; a child could have gotten 
away with it if they had read how it was done; any¬ 
body could have tied up that silver, and of course 
there weren’t any tracks leading away from under the 
window over the grass,” Phil supplemented. “You 
want my expert opinion and you’ve got it; a real crook 
could have left those traces behind but so could the 
rankest outsider. I’m like Henry, on the fence.” 

“And you, George?” Cliff glanced in exasperation 
at the cross-examiner of the firm. “You didn’t be¬ 
lieve young Monckton last night; you said he hadn’t 
been frank with us. Did you find out anything from 
the housekeeper or the servants?” 

“Several things.” George Roper nodded solemnly. 
“The most significant, under the circumstances, is that 
they all secretly think Richard may have done it and 
they’re afraid to speak. I tackled the housekeeper 


The Rat-faced Man 93 

first. She suspects why the old man came to town yes¬ 
terday, if she doesn’t know, but wild horses won’t drag 
it out of her, and I’m morally certain it was connected 
in some way with his son’s return to America. She 
didn’t approve of his coming and would have stopped 
him if she could. She’s a strange bird, that Mrs. Mil¬ 
ler, and it’s easy to see she was a raving beauty not 
so long ago! I’d like to know how it happens she’s 
a housekeeper, and who ‘Miller’ was; a dumbbell 
could see she was out of her class.” 

“I talked to the old valet after I left you,” ob¬ 
served Cliff. 

“He told me you did. He’s fiercely loyal to the 
memory of Monckton, but he hasn’t much use for 
the young man. He said he mentioned that wireless 
message to you and it’s my opinion he read it but he 
won’t admit it. He distrusts Mrs. Miller, jealous of 
her influence over the old gentleman, providing she 
actually had any; he seems to have been a pretty dom¬ 
inant character, however, from what the butler told 
me. Did you see him?” 

“Yes, if you mean a shortish man with a chest and 
stomach like a pouter pigeon,” Cliff replied. “He 
was talking with the officer and I didn’t get a chance 
to speak to him.” 

“That’s Peter Downes, the butler, all right. He’s 
been with the Moncktons for” eighteen years and he 
evidently had a lot of respect for his employer, even 
if he didn’t worship him as the old valet did, and 
wasn’t so broken up over his death and the manner of 


94 The Handwriting on the Wall 

it. He is nursing a violent attachment for Mrs. Mil¬ 
ler, if I’m any judge, but he has an eye out for the main 
chance, too. When I touched diplomatically on the 
legacies probably forthcoming now, he said it wasn’t 
the time to think of it, with Mr. Monckton done to 
death and hardly cold, but he’d always been most 
generous and appreciated faithful service, and no 
doubt they’d all be suitably remembered. He all but 
licked his lips and purred! 

“He took the wireless message from the boy who 
brought it and gave it to old Jim for Monckton. Mrs. 
Miller saw him do it, though she said nothing to me 
about it, and inadvertently he let out that after 
Monckton left for the city he came upon her in the 
old gentleman’s room. He hadn’t any business there, 
and it’s my opinion they were both after the same 
thing, a glimpse of that message. I don’t believe they 
were successful, though; Henry hasn’t mentioned it 
being found on Monckton’s body, and if he didn’t 
destroy it I guess old Jim knows where it is; but he’ll 
have to be approached from a different angle. 

“Another odd thing happened. Some one called up 
the old gentleman about seven o’clock last night. 
Peter Downes answered the ’phone and he says it 
was a man’s voice that he didn’t recognize, and faint, 
as though it came from some distance—he supposed 
New York. He said Mr. Monckton was not there 
and asked if there was any message but the man rang 
off without replying. Mrs. Miller hurried up just 
as Peter was turning away and she tried to get the 


The Rat-faced Man 95 

number back or trace it, but didn’t have any luck, and 
blamed him for not making the man leave his name. 
Peter says he asked for it over and over but the man 
just ignored the question.” 

“Did any one else call up?” 

“Not until this morning, when Mr. Hood tele¬ 
phoned very early and told them what had happened, 
summoning the three of them to town. Peter and 
Mrs. Miller had a hard time getting Jim fit to travel, 
he was so prostrated with grief, but they caught the 
first train. Peter was shocked when that officer I 
saw him talking to told him of Richard’s arrest, but 
a change came over his manner when he spoke of it. 
He’d come to them when the boy was twelve and a 
sad limb he was, always up to something. He hadn’t 
known anything about the young gentleman for the 
past six years, hadn’t ever seen him about the place, 
and he understood the father had washed his hands 
of him completely. The police might know what they 
were about, it wasn’t for him to say; it was an awful 
thing, anyway you looked at it.” 

“Another doubter!” Cliff commented. “Come on, 
George, what do you think? Do you side with the 
majority?” 

“I think any sane person is bound to doubt unless 
young Richard changes his attitude and comes clean!” 
George asserted weightily. “The circumstantial evi¬ 
dence is all against him and the practical proof of his 
story is knocked into a cocked hat if we look on it as 
possibly framed. What’s he holding out on us, and 


96 The Handwriting on the Wall 

why? If he did kill his father and set the scene for 
the fake robbery, couldn’t he have written up those 
numbers too, with some notion of throwing the police 
off the track?” 

“No, he couldn’t, because he’s not blind, nor left 
handed!” Cliff retorted. “The man who wrote them 
was both!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A HOUSE DIVIDED 

F OR a moment after Cliff’s announcement the 
other Shadowers present stared at each other 
and then Phil Howe swore softly. 

“Are you trying to put it over on us that a blind 
crook broke into that house, tied up the silver, went 
through the rooms upstairs and slugged the old man 
who came on him there? Cliff, you’re going cuckoo 
over those damned numbers!” 

“I’m not!” Cliff declared. “You’re all blind your¬ 
selves; willfully so, for you’re letting the bull-headed 
opinion of the police throw dust in your eyes. I 
didn’t mean that the thief was totally blind, but he 
is as near-sighted as the mischief; I found that out 
by studying his writing. And as for his being left- 
handed, weren’t those figures written on the wall to 
the left of the ’phone? That’s the side the receiver 
is always hung on, if you’ve noticed, for that very 
reason; to leave the right hand free to write any mes¬ 
sage, and in order to write that number where he did 
he must have switched the receiver to the other hand 
and used the left one.” 

“Maybe some one else thought of that stunt and did 
it purposely,” George Roper suggested. “I /don’t 
mean just on the spur of the moment; but what if 
Monckton had been brought to the city on some ruse 

97 


98 The Handwriting on the Wall 

and the whole affair premeditated? I don’t claim that 
there’s anything to substantiate such a theory, but there 
is nothing against it, either. I know one thing; if it 
wasn’t an actual telephone number that was written 
there, it was a series of figures subconsciously fixed 
on the mind of the man who put them down, and I’d 
like mightily to find out if there was any combination 
of six, ought and nine with which Richard was espe¬ 
cially familiar.” 

“You see, Cliff?” Henry Corliss asked. “We’re all 
taking a common-sense, unprejudiced view of the case 
as it has come to us, and you’ve got to admit that it 
looks pretty slim for our client. What does Rex say 
about it?” 

“I admit nothing of the kind!” Cliff Nichols re¬ 
torted hotly. “Rex can say and think what he pleases 
and so can you all! If you don’t want to work on this 
case with me you can all go to blazes and I’ll tackle 
it alone, and win out, too!” 

“I haven’t spoken yet, Cliff,” Lucian Baynes re¬ 
minded him. “I’m bound to say, though, that if gossip 
counts for anything our young friend seems to have 
planned something drastic and talked too much about 
it. You left word with Rex for me to take that old 
name again that I used on the liners when I wanted to 
bring in something particularly good without the for¬ 
mality of paying duty on it, so as ‘Lester Bailantyne’ I 
spent the morning looking up people who might know 
of the Norcross incident. I found one or two whose 
reminiscences were illuminating. 


99 


A House Divided 

“A chap who crossed on the ‘Empiric’ with me one 
year knows the family well and he likes a bit of scan¬ 
dal as well as any woman. Ten or eleven years ago, 
when Chester Norcross was in a preparatory school 
—from which he was afterward expelled, by the way, 

his sister Barbara went to the commencement ex¬ 
ercises and danced at the university where Richard 
was an undergrad. He met her and ‘rushed’ her, 
after the manner of youngsters, but the attachment 
wasn’t so strong that it held him back from the long 
hunting and exploration trips that he’d planned when 
he finished college. However, on his periods at home 
he was devoted to her and on the eve of his depar¬ 
ture for the last trip their engagement was announced. 

“My friend seems to have the family tree of every 
one at his finger-tips and, compared to the Moncktons, 
the Norcrosses are new-rich. The foundation of their 
wealth was laid by the great-grandfather of the pres¬ 
ent generation in the manufacture of farm imple¬ 
ments, and not until twenty years ago were they even 
heard of in society. There are two younger girls, but 
Barbara is the beauty of the family and was the most 
popular debutante of her year. De Puyster Monck- 
ton gave in with good grace, but it was generally 
understood that the engagement was a great disap¬ 
pointment to him, and he was more elated than morti¬ 
fied when it was broken. 

“Rex says Hood told you that Richard thrashed 
his future brother-in-law because of the young cad’s 
unwelcome attentions to an actress, and that Barbara 



100 The Handwriting on the Wall 

broke the engagement immediately. My friend thinks 
it wasn’t because of her brother, for she detests him 
most cordially, but because she was angry that Rich¬ 
ard should have championed so openly and publicly, 
another woman, and an actress to boot. He thinks 
she was always more in love with Richard than he with 
her, and the fact that she is twenty-eight now and still 
unmarried makes it seem likely. Lots of society chaps 
and a title or two have played around her, but appar¬ 
ently she has never given a thought to any one since 
Richard.” 

“Our client has not married, either,” George Roper 
remarked thoughtfully. 

“Yes, but business has taken most of his attention, 
and here’s where another odd thing comes in. The 
chap I was interviewing is in Wall Street, too, and 
he says there’s something strange about the ill-luck 
that has pursued Richard there; he says it seems as 
if fate had been playing with him, like a cat with a 
mouse, and as soon as he is in a fair way to make 
a killing the bottom mysteriously drops out of the 
market. He’s had a dozen chances to pull off splendid 
coups and his judgment hasn’t been at fault as far as 
any one could tell; but he’s invariably been caught 
and squeezed, though he has managed each time to 
just save himself from going to the wall. For the last 
year or two he’s lost steadily, everything he touches 
goes to thunder, as if some powerful interests were at 
work against him personally, playing him and letting 
him down, and now putting the screws on to wipe him 


A House Divided 


101 


out. That’s exactly what my friend said; think it 
over. What if somebody with practically unlimited 
money back of him were out to get him? If he sus¬ 
pected that, it would be apt to make him desperate, 
wouldn’t it?” 

“That’s a possible phase that hadn’t occurred to 
me,” Cliff Nichols admitted. “But you say he’s been 
talking too much?” 

“I’m coming to that,” Lucian Baynes responded. 
“When I left my friend I went to another and found 
corroboration, of the Norcross affair, at least; and 
then I thought I’d have a look at the passenger list 
of the ‘Tritonia’ that brought Richard home yester¬ 
day. I discovered a name on it I knew, but others that 
I didn’t expect: Miss Barbara Norcross and maid. I 
hunted up the man I knew; he’s an art dealer who 
makes it a point to meet as many wealthy and not too 
discriminating buyers of art objects as he can, princi¬ 
pally on shipboard; and he isn’t above letting them 
have something they’ve taken a fancy to without dis¬ 
couraging their illusions as to its authenticity. He 
hadn’t met Miss Norcross on the trip over, but knew 
her by sight, and Richard, too. He told me that for 
the first two days out they never appeared to see each 
other, passed on the promenade deck without a glance! 
Richard kept to himself, smoked a lot, and repelled 
all advances, but all of a sudden on the morning of 
the third day, my friend saw them together, and they 
were practically inseparable till the end of the voy¬ 
age. That’s that. 


102 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“On the last night out he happened to be bundled 
up on a steamer chair when they came along. If they 
saw him at all they must have thought he was asleep, 
for they halted at the rail just in front of him, and 
the snatches of conversation he caught showed that 
Richard was telling the girl his difficulties and how 
he meant to overcome them. ‘Caught short . . . 
a tight squeeze . . . third time in a year I faced ruin 
. . . know now what I’m up against.’ These were 
some of the phrases that came to his ears but there 
was more to follow. ‘Seemed to turn up everywhere 
I went . . . dogging me over Europe . . . All for it 
at one conference and the next turning me down cold 
with my proposition . . . been approached and influ¬ 
enced . . . only explanation.’ Miss Norcross was in¬ 
terjecting little remarks of indignant sympathy all the 
time, but my man was listening to Richard, for he’d 
noticed that another passenger had appeared to be in¬ 
terested in him, too, during the voyage, though mak¬ 
ing no attempt to speak to him. It wasn’t as obvious 
as trailing, and my art acquaintance had had some ex¬ 
perience with that when he cut a deal or two too fine, 
but it was plain that this other man was highly curious 
about Richard and his associates on board.” 

“Did he describe this man to you?” Cliff asked 
quickly. “How was he dressed and what did he look 
like?” 

“What have you heard about him?” Lucian stared. 
“I thought I was bringing you news! He said the man 
was older than Richard, quiet and gentlemanly with 


103 


A House Divided 

a keen, intelligent face; his clothes were London made 
but he wasn’t an Englishman. My acquaintance was 
inquisitive about what he’d heard, and the following 
afternoon—yesterday—as they were coming up the 
Bay he elbowed his way to the rail beside this fellow, 
and engaged him in conversation. His name was 
Christopher Radwick and he was a buyer for a Chi¬ 
cago crockery house. That is all the information my 
friend got and, of course, we can take it for what it’s 
worth if he was really interested in Richard Monckton. 
He and Miss Norcross have made up their differences 
again, even if the engagement is not renewed; if it 
is Richard has all the more reason for making good 
and getting back at his enemy, as he threatened to do 
not half an hour before he left his club last night.” 

Lucian paused, and Henry Corliss exclaimed: 

“God A’mighty! It’s getting stronger against 
young Richard all the time! You ain t been to his 
club, have you?” 

“No, but the first acquaintance I interviewed men¬ 
tioned those Richard was a member of, and I know one 
of the stewards at the club he visited last night; it’s 
name was in all the papers this morning. This fel¬ 
low used to be chief deck steward on my favorite liner 
and he’s helped me more than once, for a substantial 
commission, to bring in certain articles the customs 
men were on the lookout for,” Lucian Baynes explained 
candidly. “I got hold of him and found that he served 
some private stock last night at about half past ten, 
to Richard Monckton and a friend, a broker named 




104 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Gordon Barry. They sat a little apart from the 
others in the lounge. The steward brought the tray 
and set it down back of them, and they couldn’t have 
known he was near, for while he struggled with a soda 
bottle he heard Barry say: ‘You’re sure of this, Dick?’ 
Richard replied, ‘I know it at last and before another 
day passes I’m going to drag the truth out of him if 
I have to kill him to get it!’ 

“That was all, for the soda bottle popped just then 
and they talked of something else, at least till the 
steward was out of earshot. It isn’t conclusive evi¬ 
dence, of course, but it was a definite threat, and all 
the police would consider necessary to clinch their 
case.” 

“That’s tommyrot!” Cliff sprang from his chair 
and thrusting his hands in his pockets strode up and 
down. “Richard wasn’t talking about his father, but 
about the man he thinks is out to get him on the mar¬ 
ket! If there was a conspiracy against our client, it 
only bears out his frank statement to us that he was 
in extreme financial difficulties; and none of this old 
gossip, as I thought, has anything to do with his 
father’s murder!” 

“And you say we’re blind!” George threw up his 
hands. “Go ahead on the line you’re following and 
you’ll make The Shadowers a public joke the very 
first time our activities have been brought to the at¬ 
tention of the police!” 

“Seriously, I think you’re wrong, old chap!” Lu- 


A House Divided 105 

cian Baynes murmured. “I told you from the start 
this was no ordinary murder by a common thief caught 
in the act—” 

“That fool number has got him hipped!” Phil 
Howe interrupted. “There’s nothing to it, Cliff, old 
scout; forget that handwriting on the wall and get 
down to cases!” 

“We’re sure of just one fact; that the old man was 
murdered. Our client engaged us to find who did it, 
and if we must hang it on him it’s his own fault,” 
Henry remarked. “If we’d just keep an open mind 
and try out all the possibilities—?” 

“What’s the argument, gentlemen?” Cool, slightly 
amused tones sounded from the entrance and they 
turned to find the leader of their organization smiling 
in upon them as he stood drawing off his gloves. 

“No argument, Rex; mutiny!” Cliff exclaimed bit¬ 
terly. “I’m just hearing how many kinds of a fool 
I am and what my detective ability amounts to, but 
I’ve taken my stand and I’ll resign before I back down 
from it!” 

“Who’s talking about resigning?” Rex Powell ad¬ 
vanced to the table with a quick note of authority 
superseding the amusement. “I’m sure none of us 
need to be reminded of the agreement under which 
we incorporated ourselves, and this case is in your 
hands, absolutely! You worked cheerfully and will¬ 
ingly under the orders of three of us, and now it’s 
our turn to carry out your instructions.” 


106 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Aw, Rex, we were only talking it over the way 
we always do, and Cliff got sore because we don’t 
any of us agree with him!” Phil muttered. 

“We owe it to the reputation we are building up 
for the future not to waste precious time chasing rain¬ 
bows, but of course we are under Cliff’s orders,” sup¬ 
plemented George, adding shrewdly: “You don’t know 
what we have dug up yet, of course, but I’m sure you 
agree that those figures written beside the ’phone are 
not the sole important factor in the affair!” 

“No, I think there are other very grave considera¬ 
tions, from what I have discovered myself,” Rex 
Powell conceded. “It doesn’t matter what any of us 
think, though; Cliff is our chief!” 

“I have not denied it!” Lucian said stiffly. “I have 
made my report and now I am waiting for further 
directions.” 

“Good boy!” Rex smiled with unquenchable good 
humor. “And you, Henry?” 

“God bless my soul, I was only reasoning with him!” 
Henry Corliss expostulated. “Didn’t he help me about 
those anonymous letters? I may think he’s got the 
wrong flea by the ear, but I’ll hang onto it with him 
till Kingdom Come!” 

“Well, Cliff, what do you say?” Rex turned to him. 

“I’ll tell you.” Cliff faced them. “We’ve traced 
almost all the numbers; there are only a few exchanges 
left, and we’ll finish them up in five minutes. Luce, 
you try ‘Knickerbocker’; let Phil take ‘Cortright,’ 
Henry ‘Queensbridge’ and George ‘Chatham.’ Go 


A House Divided 107 

down to the pay station in the lobby so that you can 
call all at once and save time, and as you leave tell 
Ethel to give a ring to the same number ‘Metropol¬ 
itan.’ That takes in all but the last and I’ll attend 
to that later. If we exhaust all the numbers without 
result I’ll promise to listen to you.” 

“Fair enough!” Phil exclaimed, and led the exodus 
into the outer office, ashamed of his insubordination. 

When the last of the quartette had gone Cliff turned 
to Rex. 

“It was bully of you to clear the air like that, old 
man, especially as you think they’re right, after 
all!” he declared. “What have you found out that 
strengthens your opinion?” 

“I haven’t any, actually; I merely feel that we 
shouldn’t pin our faith on that one seeming clew when 
other significant points remain unexplained,” Rex 
Powell responded. “I found my friend Ormsby and 
took him to lunch. As I expected, he was bubbling 
over with the news of the murder and arrest, for he 
has known the Moncktons for years. He likes young 
Richard immensely and hasn’t an idea we’re on the 
case; for he thinks The Shadowers merely a blind for 
our more subtle activities in the higher branches of 
the Secret Service allied with international diplomacy. 
That made what he said to me all the more damning, 
for he is as sure as you are that the authorities have 
made a bad mistake and denounces it as an outrage. 
He met Richard at a country club last June and, know¬ 
ing things were in a rotten way with him down on 


108 The Handwriting on the Wall 

the Street, he tried to speak of it and offer a little 
assistance to tide him over, but Richard wouldn’t even 
discuss the matter and Ormsby desisted for fear of 
offending his pride. He remembers the incident 
clearly, not only because it was the last time he saw 
him, but because Richard acted so strangely and talked 
in such a rambling fashion that he was seriously con¬ 
cerned. It was just after that big Tillinghast robbery 
when the butler decamped with over two hundred 
thousand dollars’ worth of jewels during a house party, 
you may recall; and Richard kept talking about it 
and how easy it would be to break into the old Monck- 
ton mansion because of his father’s prejudice against 
burglar alarms. Cliff, he described exactly how a 
window could be forced and the family silver stolen, 
together with any trinkets and old jewelry lying about 
upstairs, in absolute conformity with every detail of 
the evidence left last night except for the dead body! 
Do you see what that may—what it must—mean? 
If, in a moment of ungovernable rage, last night, he 
so far forgot himself as to strike his father, and then 
discovered to his horror that the old man was. dead, 
that old hypothetical description may have come back 
to his mind, and as a means of self-preservation he 
put it into practice! I said I hadn’t any opinion, but 
strictly between ourselves, it isn’t true. I’m convinced 
that Richard Monckton murdered his father!” 


CHAPTER IX 

EVEN THE WOMAN! 

T HERE was a brief silence between Cliff Nichols 
and Rex Powell after the latter had made his 
declaration and then Cliff shook his head slowly. 
“You’re sure Richard is guilty merely because, by 
a not remarkable coincidence, his description of a 
hypothetical burglary has been carried out in fact, 
Rex. He was concerned about his father’s disregard 
of ordinary precaution, even though he and the old 
gentleman were estranged, and his thoughts naturally 
centered on his family home. Ormsby himself took 
that view of it, didn’t he?” 

“Yes,” Rex admitted. “He’s the kind of chap 
who wouldn’t believe evil of his friends, thank God, 
no matter what proof was offered him! He says only 
that it must be frightful for Richard to realize that 
not only did the robbery take place exactly as he 
demonstrated it could be done, but that his father 
should have met his death through it! That’s all I 
have to tell you, and I’m under your orders like the 
rest. What is next?” 

“First I want to tell you something of what we’ve 
all discovered.” Cliff briefly recounted the events of 
the morning, but made no reference to his conversa¬ 
tion with the owner of the stationery store, nor did 

109 


110 The Handwriting on the Wall 

he overemphasize Lucian Baynes’ story of the home¬ 
ward voyage of the ‘Tritonia.’ He had said nothing 
to the other Shadowers of the man in gray who had 
so persistently questioned Emil Deutsch, and he de¬ 
cided for a time to keep that incident to himself, just 
as in all fairness he would keep his word to them. 
They were so ready to believe their client guilty, so 
sure that handwriting on the wall meant nothing, that 
he would direct their investigations in the channels 
that pleased them best, but, alone and unaided, he 
would find the real murderer of de Puyster Monckton. 

He was just concluding his recital when Phil, Lucian 
and George reentered in a body and the former ex¬ 
claimed : 

“That’s a hot one ! I got the police station! Holy 
Cat!” 

“And I the rectory of a church,” George Roper sup¬ 
plemented. “I had to invent a christening on the spur 
of the moment, but I greatly fear the good man will 
wait vainly for this particular child!” 

“Knickerbocker 6099 is the number of an establish¬ 
ment we might find it amusing to investigate in our 
leisure moments,” Lucian murmured. “The voice that 
replied to me was cagey, but Pve left my ill-gottem 
gains in too many kursaals on the other side not to 
know a private gambling club when I encounter one. 
What shall I do now, Cliff?” 

“You’ve drawn blanks, as Phil predicted?” Cliff 
smiled. “You chaps win, I fancy! Luce, go and bribe 
your friend the steward to the limit for any club gos- 


Even the Woman! Ill 

sip he can pick up for us, and then see if, through the 
fellow passenger you first interviewed, you cannot 
obtain an introduction to Miss Barbara Norcross; 
you’ll know what to do then.” 

Lucian Baynes’s small blond mustache twitched ex¬ 
citedly. 

“By Jove, old man, now I think you’ve taken the 
right trail! It will be rather a large order, I am 
afraid, but I’ll do my best to fill it. He ought to be 
still at his Broad Street office.” 

In the paneled opening he collided with Henry Cor¬ 
liss, who charged in, red and perspiring. 

“God A’mighty, what a woman I got on the wire! 
She raked me over the coals for keeping her husband 
out all night—! Did any of you boys strike pay 
dirt?” 

“No, Henry,”-Cliff replied for them. “I bow to 
your superior judgment! Phil, run up to Pocantico 
Hills and see what you can find out through the serv¬ 
ants of the Manor about de Puyster Monckton’s af¬ 
fairs, his guests during the past month and how he’s 
acted, what his bearing has been. Stop at Hood’s 
office before you go; he’ll give you a list of these 
house guests and also of the servants, and I want 
you to study them and their associates as well. If 
there’s a pretty housemaid you shouldn’t find it too 
difficult! Tell Hood to send us a duplicate list here, 
and as soon as you are settled for a few days write 
to me, special delivery, and let me know how and 
where to provide you with further instructions.” 


112 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“I’ll get the next train!” Phil Howe promised, start- 
ing for the outer office. “You’ll hear from me in 
the morning by the first mail.” 

“George,” Cliff turned to him, “use your own 
methods, but get a line on that supposed crockery 
buyer, Christopher Radwick. It ought to be easy to 
trace him, for he only landed yesterday on the ‘Tri- 
tonia,’ remember. As soon as you have located him 
positively, ’phone to Ethel and give her as detailed 
a description of his personal appearance as you can. 
Then get on his trail and don’t leave it till you find 
out why he was so interested in Richard.” 

“You’d like to know his movements so far to-day, 
too, wouldn’t you?” George’s lugubrious expression 
lightened with a sly grin. “I suspect that you could 
tell me something more of him if you felt inclined, 
but I’ll go ahead with the data I have. I won’t get 
in touch with the office here till I have positive news.” 

“Rex, I’m going to leave it to you, too, as to how 
you’ll go about it, but I want a lot more information 
concerning the Moncktons and their friends, any little 
details of their affairs during the past few years. If 
I’m not around Ethel will take any message.” 

Cliff followed him out to the entrance door and 
after it had closed behind him the secretary remarked: 

“Mr. Nichols, there’s something funny about 6099 
Metro. I asked for ‘Sadie Cohen,’ seeing about a 
million of them in the ’phone book yesterday, and 
when a man’s voice answered I said I thought she 
worked there. ‘The hell you do !’ he came back. I 


113 


Even the Woman! 

tried my best to get the name of whatever place it was, 
but finally he said it was Eight Twenty-six East One 
Hundred and Fortieth Street, and laughed and rang 
off.” 

“All right, Ethel; I don’t believe there is any such 
number but we’ll find out. Thanks.” He strolled 
back into the council room where Henry Corliss 
awaited him alone, and the latter looked up, flushing 
again. 

“I suppose you think, Cliff, that we’ve all treated 
you pretty shabbily—?” he began, but Cliff stopped 
him with a gesture. 

“I think nothing of the kind! I’m glad you came 
out honestly with your opinions,” he rejoined heartily. 
“I may be sending you on a goose-chase, but I’d like 
to have you go up to East One Hundred and Fortieth 
Street and look for number 826. I suspect you’ll find 
it is a vacant lot or the middle of the river, but scout 
around the neighborhood and see if you can find any¬ 
body who knows anything about what happened at 
the Monckton house. You’ll have to go carefully and 
it may take time but I think you’ll learn something.” 

Henry looked dubious but resigned. 

“I’ll tackle it,” he remarked. “You couldn’t give 
me a line on what you expect me to unearth?” 

“Haven’t an idea!” Cliff responded frankly. “You 
can judge by the neighborhood; I imagine it will be 
pretty cheap. Anyway, do the best you can.” 

When the medical expert had departed for his un¬ 
accustomed field, Cliff called Ethel into his sanctum 


114 The Handwriting on the Wall 

and laid before her the transfer of the tracing which 
he had made. 

“What do you think of this?” he asked. “It’s a 
copy of the handwriting on the wall beside that ’phone. 
Offhand, what would you say about the person who 
wrote it? Almost blind, wasn’t he?” 

“I shouldn’t say so!” Ethel shook her head de¬ 
cidedly. “I’ve seen the writing of people that were 
blind or nearly so, and some accounts they kept, and 
the figures were separated evenly and in straight rows. 
They get so they can tell things just by the feeling 
and it’s so with their writing; a sort of sense of spac¬ 
ing comes natural to them, I guess. A person don’t 
have to be blind because he can’t see what he’s put¬ 
ting down. Maybe he was in the dark.” 

“‘The dark!’” Cliff fairly shouted. “Of course 
he was! I’ve known that all the time but I never 
thought—! He couldn’t use his flashlight if he had 
one, for he was writing with one hand and holding 
the receiver with the other! Monckton came and 
switched the lights on suddenly just as he put. down 
the last figure. That’s why the pencil broke and he 
whirled around and struck him down!” 

“‘The pencil broke?’” Ethel repeated thought¬ 
fully. 

“Yes. Here’s the tracing I took of the original, 
and you see what a deep gouge it made in the wall. 
Moreover, I have the piece of lead here that he used!” 
Cliff felt in his pocket and produced the tiny fragment 
and Ethel took it from him, regarded its circumfer- 


Even the Woman! 115 

ence and then made a few marks with it on the pad 
lying before her. 

“It’s a number two,” she announced. “About the 
most-used grade that’s made, and if we had the whole 
pencil it wouldn’t help much, for there are probably 
hundreds like it sold every day. Could I look at this 
tracing a minute under one of those microscope things 
of yours?” 

Cliff handed her a powerful reading glass and she 
dropped into the chair beside the desk, bending over 
the paper while he watched her with renewed respect. 
She had improved herself wonderfully in her brief 
vacation, but still the old Ethel was there, the quick 
brain and intuitive reasoning, which, combined with 
intrepid courage and an almost superhuman resource¬ 
fulness, had enabled her more than once to save the 
day for her employers. 

He told himself defensively that he must soon have 
realized on his own account the discovery she had 
made, but it did not diminish his admiration for her 
lightning perception of the truth, and when she pushed 
glass and tracing over to him with a little sigh, he 
asked smilingly: 

“What did you expect to find, Ethel?” 

“Nothing.” She rose. “Some one came in then, 
didn’t there?” 

As she vanished through the panel he picked up 
the tracing again; but if he had not been so deeply 
preoccupied it is probable that he would have noted 
that disarming quality in her tone and been warned 


116 The Handwriting on the Wall 

by it, as well as by her arrant subterfuge to avoid 
further conversation. 

He had turned the other Shadowers loose on the 
witnesses who might clear up the superficial mysteries 
which obscured the case, and got rid of Henry by 
the only means that occurred to him. Now he was 
free to pursue his own line of investigation, but it 
apparently led up against a stone wall. The numbers 
called had availed him nothing, and to try the subur¬ 
ban ones would be an endless task. 

Yet it was through the four figures written beside 
the murdered man’s telephone that the problem would 
be solved, and through them alone! He was as cer¬ 
tain of it as in the moment when he had demanded 
control of the case, and opposition and failure only 
strengthened his convicion. Somehow, somewhere—! 

His buzzer whirred with the short, abruptly ceas¬ 
ing hum that usually summoned him to the council 
room, and he rose and hurried in, to find it empty. 
While he halted in surprise the familiar ticking sound 
came to his ears and he saw a strip of paper un¬ 
winding rapidly through its slot. Running it through 
his fingers he read: 

“Young woman just came in, black hair, blue eyes, 
stunning, Paris clothes, heavy veil thrown back, no 
solitaire or wedding ring, all upset, been crying, asked 
for detective in charge Monckton case, refused name, 
open dictaphone, stand by.” 

Cliff obeyed the injunction and Ethel’s voice reached 
him. 


Even the Woman! 117 

“I’m very sorry but it’s quite impossible. The mem¬ 
bers of the firm are all very busy and it’s a rule here 
to receive no one who objects to sending in their card.” 

“I—I have none with me.” The tones of the 
woman’s reply were soft and musical, but Ethel’s ticker 
unreeled a terse contradiction. 

“A lie, there is a platinum cardcase hanging from 
her wrist.” 

Aloud the secretary was saying pleasantly: 

“Here is a pad and pencil that will do as well. If 
you will write your name, please, I will take it to one 
of the gentlemen.” 

“I—it doesn’t matter!” The young woman’s voice 
was reluctant, frightened. “I could not possibly have 
my name mentioned in connection with the affair. No 
one must know—!” 

“The Shadowers give no information to the press,” 
Ethel interrupted patiently. “Anything you have to 
say will be received in the strictest confidence and no 
one need ever know you have been here.” 

The paper beneath Cliff’s fingers was moving again 
and a brief sentence leaped out at him. 

“Initials on case B.M.N.” 

At the same moment the voice of the visitor came 
to him once more. 

“If you are quite sure I may depend on that, my 
—my name is Bertha Naylor. I will talk only with 
the detective who is investigating this particular case.” 

Cliff advanced to the telephone and it rang as he 
took up the receiver. 


118 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Mr. Nichols, a lady named Miss Bertha Naylor 
would like to speak to you in connection with the 
Monckton case.” 

Cliff glanced about him at the somber severity of 
the room and shook his head hopelessly. Rex’s scene¬ 
setting abilities were beyond him. 

“Show Miss Naylor in immediately, please, Miss 
Jepson.” 

The young woman who appeared when the panel 
slid aside was indeed “stunning,” as Ethel had de¬ 
scribed her. The soft waves of hair beneath her small 
black hat were dark as midnight, her skin like ala¬ 
baster and, though lacking in firmness and strength, 
her features were exquisite. 

“You are Mr. Nichols, I believe?” 

Cliff bowed and drew forward a chair. 

“You wished to see me in reference to the unfor¬ 
tunate tragedy we are investigating? Sit down, please. 
I have been expecting you.” 

“Expecting me!” she echoed, sinking into the chair 
while her face flamed with sudden color. 

“You and Mr. Richard Monckton are old friends, 
I understand,” Cliff explained blandly. “You returned 
to America on the same steamer as our client, didn’t 
you, Miss Norcross?” 

“How did you know—?” Barbara Norcross 
paused, biting her lip. “I cannot imagine who men¬ 
tioned me to you, but I won’t deny my identity; I 
only ask for your assurance that Mr. Monckton will 
never know I have come here I” 


119 


Even the Woman! 

“He won’t learn of it through us,” Cliff declared 
as he took the chair opposite. “Have you come to 
give us some information that will help us to free 
him? Forgive me for speaking of it but you were 
at one time engaged to marry Mr. Monckton, were 
you not?” 

She bowed her head. 

“The engagement terminated some years ago, Mr. 
Nichols, but we remained friends.” 

“‘Friends?’” He caught up the words. “That 
is odd. You did not speak for the first two days 
out on the ‘Tritonia.’ ” 

“Oh, who could have told you!” The color was 
swept like a receding wave from her face. “We were 
watched, then! What does it all mean?” 

“Not deliberately spied upon, Miss Norcross; both 
you and our client are well known to many by sight,” 
Cliff observed. “His arrest for the murder of his 
father must have been a great shock to you, but of 
course a grave mistake has been made.” He paused 
a moment meaningly. 

“Of course!” she assented eagerly. Too eagerly, 
Cliff thought, as he noted the strained, pitiful over¬ 
tone which had crept into her voice. “That is why 
I have forced myself to come to you. The relations 
which formerly existed between us mean nothing now, 
but as a—a sincere friend I thought you should be 
informed that he has powerful enemies! I know it, 
he told me so! They have been trying systematically 
to ruin him for years, and the financial crisis which 


120 The Handwriting on the Wall 

the papers are making so much of to-day was due 
solely to their machinations!” 

“Who are these enemies?” Cliff asked. “A part 
of your conversation on the last night out was over¬ 
heard, but did he mention any names?” 

“Richard doesn’t know, himself!” The intimate 
name sprang unconsciously from her lips. “He has 
discovered only that he is the victim of deliberate, 
personal persecution, and he cannot account for it in 
any way! He is determined to find out who is re¬ 
sponsible and fight them to the bitter end! Surely 
this stupid, wicked mistake will be rectified at once? 
He—he will never come to trial?” 

“The matter is not as simple as it seems.” Cliff 
was watching the pleading face narrowly. “It would 
be useless to conceal from you that the authorities 
have a strong circumstantial case and they will make 
every effort to rush it through. Many men have bitter 
personal enemies, Miss Norcross, but I fail to see 
what bearing that could have on the murder of his 
father! Mr. Monckton can only hope for release if 
some one is found to take his place.” 

“But you said—!” Barbara Norcross spoke in a 
whisper and her slender body shook. “You, or some 
one representing The Shadowers, said you were con¬ 
fident of proving his innocence! It is in all the after¬ 
noon papers!” 

“Mr. Hood must have issued that statement with¬ 
out authority from us,” Cliff disclaimed. “The law 
here in America reads that a person is innocent until 


Even the Woman! 121 

proven guilty; but in this case public opinion will hold 
Mr. Monckton guilty unless sufficient evidence is found 
to arrest some one else.” 

“Unless!” She rose slowly from her chair. “And 
he can only hope for release if some one else is found 1 
You don’t know! You’re not sure! But you must 
prove that he is innocent! You must!” 

In that last despairing cry Cliff learned what he 
had been waiting for since the beginning of the inter¬ 
view. It was Barbara Norcross who was not sure! 
She had come there to be reassured and have her secret 
fears set at rest. In spite of herself, the woman who 
loved him believed, too, in Richard Monckton’s guilt! 




CHAPTER X 


BEHIND HIGH WALLS 

W HEN Phil settled himself in the train bound 
for Pocantico Hills an hour after leaving the 
office of The Shadowers, a new and shining 
suitcase of livid tan reposed at his feet and he sported 
a jaunty spring topcoat that was the last word along 
the Rialto. 

He took from his pocket the two lists he had ob¬ 
tained from the attorney, Grosvenor Hood, and 
spread them out upon his knee. The first was com¬ 
paratively long and most of the names were unfamiliar 
to him, but here and there he came upon one which 
he recognized as more or less notable in the city and 
he whistled softly to himself. Eminent jurists, doc¬ 
tors, bankers, a former Governor, a college president, 
a celebrated minister, an ambassador—Holy Cat! 
He hadn’t any idea the murdered man had been such 
a big guy, in spite of all that talk about family and 
money! No wonder the papers gave him most of the 
front page if these were the kind of people who visited 
at his house! 

The second list was much shorter, but Phil Howe 
whistled again. Sixteen servants to make things com¬ 
fortable for one old man alone! What a pipe they 
must have had of it! There were eight of them in 
the house under Mrs. Miller; the butler and valet 


122 


123 


Behind High Walls 

whom he had caught a glimpse of in the town house 
that morning, a footman, then the cook, parlormaid, 
housemaid, kitchenmaid and laundress. The house¬ 
maid’s name was Nora Delaney, that sounded prom¬ 
ising, and the parlormaid was Lucie Regnier—French, 
of course! 

Phil’s eyes began to twinkle irrepressibly. He was 
going to like this job! Besides the chauffeur and 
coachman, there were a stableman and a garage me¬ 
chanic, a head gardener and three assistants. Their 
names were all strange to him but sounded American, 
and he concluded that the first whose acquaintance 
he must contrive to make would be the garage me¬ 
chanic, Matthew Bremer. They would have kindred 
tastes, for in the days before he had cracked his first 
crib, Phil had been a driver of no mean ability when 
the motor races were run over the open roads; and 
through the mechanic he might get in with the chauf¬ 
feur, who would doubtless be in soft with the maids 
at the house. 

His first requirement would be accommodation, and 
when the short run was over Phil made his way to a 
commercial-looking hotel down the village street, 
where he registered as “Phil Howell” and deposited 
his suitcase in a modest room. He was impatient to 
start upon his quest but decided to make character 
first; so, with a fresh box of cigarettes and a sheaf 
of evening papers, he descended to the front porch, 
where several men were seated enjoying the mild 
spring air. 


124 The Handwriting on the JVall 

They appeared to be natives for the most part, with 
one or two commercial travelers, yet his sharp eyes 
detected in a brisk-looking youngster with an aggres¬ 
sive pompadour a cub reporter on one of the great 
dailies; and a thick-set, heavy-jowled man, chewing 
reflectively on an unlighted cigar, had “plain-clothes 
bull” written all over him. It would behoove Phil 
to watch his step. 

The loan of a paper to one of the natives broke 
the ice and a traveling salesman joined them. 

“What’s your line, brother?” he asked. 

“Nothing like that!” Phil laughed, conscious of 
the sudden attention of the reporter and the heavy- 
set man. “My boss wants to extend his chain of 
garages and sent me up to look over some likely sites 
around here. The Post Road is overcrowded now 
with service stations.” 

“Ain’t much use fer public places to keep cars in 
’round here,” the native remarked. “Folks don’t stop 
fer a day or two and then travel on; the big estates 
got their own garages and the farmers keep- their 
flivvers in the barn.” 

“One of the big places here is getting enough free 
advertising for a summer hotel!” the traveling man 
said, as he accepted a cigarette from Phil, and the 
latter’s breath caught in his throat but he remained 
silent. The conversation had started in the right 
direction, without any steering from him, and he 
wouldn’t bull his luck by an unnecessary word. 

“Monckton Manor, you mean?” The native spat 


125 


Behind, High Walls 

over the rail. “It’s three mile out on the Bedford 
pike—here’s a picter of it now, in this here paper! 
Mr. Monckton was a fine old feller and if his son 
killed him, like the city police say, ’lectrocution’s a 
darn sight too good fer him! I see the boy ’round 
here summers myself and he was a limb of Satan, if 
ever there was one! You’d never have figgered, 
though, that he’d be ekil to murder!” 

The little group of three was augmented by one 
after another, and the crime was discussed from all 
its angles, though Phil was careful not to display too 
much interest in it. After half an hour he got up 
and strolled off down the street with the newspaper 
containing the reproduction of Monckton Manor 
tucked under his arm. 

He turned in at the drug store and ordered a phos¬ 
phate, and under cover of the counter he examined 
the picture. The house was of brick with a Mansard 
roof, set in thickly wooded grounds on a sloping hill 
behind a high stone fence, and was unpleasantly remi¬ 
niscent of certain institutions of detention Phil had 
known, save that its top was covered with thick, trail¬ 
ing vines and densely massed shrubbery showed just 
beyond. He felt sure he should be able to recognize 
it when he found it and, dropping the paper at his 
feet, he finished his phosphate and asked the clerk 
what roads around there were best for motor touring. 

“They’re all good,” was the reply. “Used to be 
old driving roads in the coaching days with fine pieces 
of property all around, and most of them are here 


126 The Handwriting on the IVall 

yet. The Bedford pike’s about the prettiest if you 
ain’t in a hurry; it crosses here at the end of the street 
and winds around Steeple Hill.” 

That was all Phil wanted to know, and after an 
unappetizing dinner in the deserted hotel dining-room, 
he strolled off in the opposite direction, and skirted 
the village to the steeply sloping hill he had noted 
on leaving the drug store. The broad white road 
was well lighted, and numerous cars passed, but he 
kept to the path and walked along briskly, till the 
clustering houses of the village were left far behind 
and long stretches of hedge and tall iron fences on 
either side were broken only by ornamental gateways, 
festooned with massively wrought lamps and lanterns. 

Surely he had come more than three miles! Used 
to the pavements and swarming shops and tenements 
of the city, Phil found the dark, winding road hard 
to travel and the empty stillness, accentuated by creepy, 
unaccustomed night sounds, oppressive and dreary; but 
he continued doggedly on his way until at last the 
high, vine-clad stone wall of the picture loomed up 
beside him and he heaved a sigh of relief. 

It couldn’t be more than nine o’clock; if he saw a 
light around the garage he’d take a chance and butt 
in. Maybe he’d find a crap game going on the quiet; 
the men outside couldn’t be expected to hold a wake 
because the old guy was gone. Could he have passed 
the gate? 

Phil walked on and on, but the fence seemed never- 
ending and he was just thinking that the four gar- 


127 


Behind High Walls 

deners, or forty for that matter, would not have any 
pipe, after all, keeping such a huge place in order, 
when at last he came to the gates. 

Instead of approaching them, however, he ducked 
quickly; for they were open, two cars were drawn 
up at the side of the road and a voice with a strong 
Hibernian accent came from the deeper shadows by 
one of the great stone posts. 

“I’d not care if ye riprisinted all the pa-apers in 
the worruld, ye’d not be gettin’ past this gate the night, 
and don’t be callin’ me Saint Pether agin or I’ll break 
the head av ye!” 

A second voice was lifted cajolingly from one of 
the cars, but it was abruptly silenced by the clang of 
the heavy gate as it slammed. Phil had climbed with 
the agility of a cat up a tall maple whose branches 
swept the wall, and he dropped down upon its top 
as the reverberation was drowned by the uproar of 
the departing cars. 

Footsteps were crunching along the gravel and a 
lantern bobbed among the bushes, and keeping his 
eyes upon it Phil dropped to the soft turf and started 
to follow it, at a discreet distance, as warily as though 
he were once more spotting a lay. Once he tripped 
over an upstanding root, and again an incautious step 
sent the gravel flying, but the lantern ahead did not 
stop and he gradually crept up on it till the outlines 
of a rambling house, far larger than the picture had 
led him to expect, came into view, with low lights 
glowing dimly from curtained windows here and there. 


128 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Brighter lights gleamed from a cluster of outbuildings 
near at hand, toward which the lantern had turned, and 
Phil was prepared to trail along in its wake when 
the sudden clamor of dogs made him halt. 

It died away as the same harsh voice silenced them 
and then called out: 

“I’m thinking I’d turn thim loose, Matt. Ivery 
wan’s in that belongs, and they’ll make short work of 
a stranger!” 

Phil Howe waited to hear no more. Bitter ex¬ 
perience in his former profession had taught him dis¬ 
cretion, and at least he had located the scene of to¬ 
morrow’s operations. He turned and slipped off 
among the trees, making for the wall once more with¬ 
out following the windings of the drive, and he came 
upon it sooner than he had hoped, at a point evi¬ 
dently farther beyond the gate. Here he ventured 
to use his flashlight and saw to his relief that there 
was a gap in the wall, with heaped stones and a mortar 
bin at one side, showing that repairs were in opera¬ 
tion, and he forced apart the wires which formed a 
temporary barrier and wriggled through the aperture. 

A low, startled cry and a soft exclamation in a for¬ 
eign accent came to his ears as a feminine figure in 
white, partially obscured by a flowing dark cape, drew 
hastily back from him. 

“Mon Dieu, a robber! We shall be keel as Mon- 
sieu’ was—!” 

The French parlormaid, Lucie! If she was as 
pretty as her voice— 


129 


Behind High Walls 

“Not a bit of it, Miss!” Phil made his most gal¬ 
lant bow, forgetting that it would be wasted in the 
darkness. “Pm cousin to Nora Delaney, one of the 
maids up at the Monckton house here, but they won’t 
let me get in to see her, and some wild Irishman threat¬ 
ened to turn the dogs out on me! Here, I’ll let you 
see I’m all right and there’s nothing to be scared 
of.” 

He flashed the light upon himself and then swept 
it over her for an instant before extinguishing it. She 
was pretty, with her pointed little Gallic face and big, 
dark eyes! She had been smiling, too; this wasn’t 
going to be half bad! 

A relieved little laugh bubbled out on the air and 
she murmured: 

“Cousin to the good Nora! But perhaps you did 
not know, Monsieu’, that there has been a death, a 
murder—?” 

“Sure I know, but call me ‘Philip’!” the young ras¬ 
cal begged. “Wasn’t I at the very house in town 
to-day where the old gentleman was killed? I was 
looking for Nora, thinking they were all in the city 
still, and not having had a chance to read the paper 
to-day, and I found the whole place full of police! 
But you must be Miss Lucie Regnier, I guess? Nora’s 
spoken about you in her letters.” 

“She has not spoken of you, M’sieu’ Philip!” A 
pause, then eagerly: “But tell me of what goes on there 
where poor Monsieu’ Monckton was killed? It is 
terrible that his son should do this thing!” 


130 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Phil suggested. “Did you ever 
see him?” 

“Then why have they arrest’ him? No, never have 
I seen him, but in the house here, in the room of 
Monsieu’, there is a portrait which Mrs. Miller tells 
me is that of the son, and he does not look like the 
sort of man to take his father’s life! Often have I 
passed in the hall to see Monsieu’ standing before it 
with so much of sadness—but perhaps you do not 
know there was an old quarrel between them?” 

“Yes. I’ve read it in all the papers since.” Phil 
intended to waste no time on old stuff. “Were you 
with them then?” 

“I have been here, it is just one year. It is very 
late, I must go—” Inconsistently she hesitated and 
then seated herself on a low pile of stones that had 
been left by the path. “You shall tell me a little of 
what you see this afternoon!” 

“It was all over then.” Phil restrained his im¬ 
patience and sat down beside her, but at a discreet 
distance. “Didn’t you ever hear the old gentleman 
speak of his son?” 

“No, I do not think so, M’sieu’ Philip.” Lucie 
paused and then added in a little burst of confidence: 
“I tell you one strange thing, though. The household, 
it is already establish’ here last spring when Mrs. 
Miller engage me in the city as parlormaid just after 
I arrive in this country, and three times in May and 
June a man comes to see Monsieu’. There are many 
guests, much entertaining, but always this man he 


131 


Behind High Walls 

comes when no one else is here, and Monsieu’ takes 
him into the study and talks with him behind locked 
doors. Always, too, Monsieu’ is ill afterward; not 
in bed, but he broods to himself and looks so aged 
and frail. It is many days before he is himself again. 
Mrs. Miller, she try each time to listen, to hear what 
is said; I catch her at the door and she is very angry, 
but I do not care! Me, I am curious, too! The third 
time this man arrive, it is in the last of June and I 
remember it is warm in that study, the windows are 
open, one could stand on the lawn beneath with no 
one the wiser and hear—! You think it is very wicked 
of me, no?” 

“Perfectly natural!” Phil replied promptly. “Go 
on; what were they saying?” 

“First it is the voice of Monsieu’. ‘I tell you, he 
will kill me yet! I feel it, I know it! All these five 
years I have waited, thinking that each one would be 
the end! That boy will be answerable for my death!’ 
I think it is his son he speaks of, for the quarrel has 
been just five years before last June, your cousin has 
told me, but I do not comprehend that he means he 
shall be murdered; not until the news of to-day! The 
strange gentleman speaks then, but in so low a tone 
that I do not hear, and after that Monsieu’ say: ‘Yes, 
he has threatened that! Mark my words, if I am 
found dead some day my blood will be upon his head!’ 
I cannot wait to hear more, for the butler calls me 
and I have fear that I shall be discover’! The man 
comes no more here to the Manor, not again, but 


132 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Monsieu’, he is failing with each day; he has changed 
much, but slowly, and in the last few weeks he goes 
—how do you say?—all to pieces. 

“The butler and footman say he eat nothing and 
his valet is almost sick with the worry; a light burns 
in his room all the night long and when I come down 
at six in the morning, often he is still walking up and 
down! Two weeks ago Monsieu’ receives a cable and 
for three days he keep to his room and when he ap¬ 
pears again he is like a ghost; but he has visitors who 
arrive for over Sunday and then he manages to be 
himself while they are here. They depart, and all 
this week he is never still! He wanders about the 
house and garden, saying nothing, and always Mrs. 
Miller is watching! Yesterday morning he receives 
a message and he goes, and all the day Mrs. Miller 
is like a madwoman, she flies at one’s head! To-day, 
when the news comes, I comprehend what it is I see 
in the face of Monsieu’ for these many days—it is 
fear!” She shuddered and rose. “I must go, now; 
you will assist me through the fence, M’sieu Philip? 
The gates, they are closed.” 

“Of course I will, Lucie!” Phil dared. “Look here, 
when can I see you again? I was only coming to 
visit Nora because we’re cousins and I haven’t seen 
her in a long time, but it was you I wanted to meet! 
Nora don’t need to know, and Pm staying on here 
in the village for a few days. Suppose I come to¬ 
morrow, right here through this gap in the fence, 
and bring the finest box of candy I can find? They’ll 


133 


Behind High Walls 

hardly be at work then, with the old gentleman just 
dead. Can you slip out for a minute or two with 
nobody on, and I’ll tell you what good movies are 
coming down at the theater?” 

“Monsieu’ Philip!” Her tone was scandalized but 
there was yielding in it, too. “We do not know each 
other, and Nora might be jealous! Still, for perhaps 
one little minute—!” 

Plodding villageward once more, Phil pondered on 
what he had learned. Need he go back for further 
information? Richard had threatened to kill his 
father and the old gentleman knew he would do it! 
He had been afraid for his life ever since he re¬ 
ceived a cablegram a fortnight before—the message 
which probably warned him of his son’s approaching 
return. On the day Richard landed his father had 
gone to town to meet his death! Would not this be 
enough to convince Cliff ? 


o 


CHAPTER XI 


IN THE NEXT ROOM 

AT the precise hour when Phil alighted at the 
station in Pocantico Hills, a tall elderly indi¬ 
vidual, in garb that faintly suggested a rural 
clergyman, with a long, lugubrious countenance and 
graying hair, was interviewing a group of taxi drivers 
at the entrance to one of the larger piers on New 
York’s lower water front. He was evidently in great 
perplexity and 'distress of mind, and although his ap¬ 
pearance did not denote a generous fee the men good- 
naturedly tried to help him solve his problem. 

“I was delayed a whole day!” he mourned. “I 
ought to have been here when the ship got in and 
now I fear I shall miss my brother! Dear me, I 
never realized the city was so big and confusing! 
Surely one of you must have driven my brother to 
some hotel! ‘C. R.’ would be the initials on his bag¬ 

gage.” 

“ ‘C. R.’ ” One of the chauffeurs pushed his cap 
back and scratched his head. “I had a party with 
two children that I took from the boat to the Rocke¬ 
feller—?” 

“No, my brother was alone; Christopher Radwick, 
his name is, and he’d go to some small hotel, I am 
sure.” 


134 


In the Next Room 135 

“Maybe Mike would know,” suggested a second 
chauffeur. “Here he comes now with his cab. Seems 
to me I saw him driving off with a fare that looked 
something like you, only younger.” 

“That must have been he!” The questioner’s face 
lighted hopefully. “My brother’s baggage would be 
labeled ‘Chicago,’ too.” 

Fortunately Mike did know. When the situation 
was explained to him and the details of identification 
added, he exclaimed: 

“Sure, I had him! Drove him to the Fresno. ‘C. 
R. Chicago,’ eh? That’s my fare, all right. Want 
me to take you there?” 

But the anxious brother was already climbing into 
the taxi, and in a quarter of an hour he was set down 
before a modest hostelry on a side street just off a 
teeming avenue. 

The taxi dismissed, his demeanor changed as he 
entered the lobby, and, approaching the desk, he ruffled 
the leaves of the register idly as he bargained for a 
room. It developed that he had very definite notions 
of what would suit him; he mustn’t be put up too high 
on account of fire—the third floor would do but not 
at the back, he liked the morning sun. Perhaps right 
in the center of the building, near the elevator—? 

The arrangements were made at last, but when he 
was finally settled in the apartment of his choice and 
the door securely locked, his behavior, for a visiting 
clergyman, was extraordinary. He first examined the 
connecting door in the side wall to the left and, find- 


136 The Handwriting on the IVall 

ing it bolted seemingly on the other side, he produced 
a small gimlet and proceeded to bore a convenient 
peephole on a level with his eyes, letting the infinitesi¬ 
mal grains of sawdust fall carefully on a newspaper 
spread on the floor. Next, he gathered this up and 
returned it and the gimlet to his pocket, then drawing 
up a chair he prepared himself for a protracted vigil. 

It was interrupted by a knock on the door and, 
thrusting back the chair, he rubbed a moistened fore¬ 
finger over the tiny but raw hole, and crossed to the 
entrance leading to the hall. A chambermaid, drag¬ 
gled and weary-looking, stood on the threshold with 
two grayish towels over her arm. She flushed with 
surprise and gratification when a dollar was pressed 
into her hand and the new arrival asked her name 
in kindly, paternal tones. 

“Katie, sir. I think you’ll be comfortable. If you 
want anything else just ring.” 

“My neighbors—are- they quiet people?” he asked. 
“I’m a poor sleeper, Katie, and if they come in 
late—?” 

“They’re both gentlemen, and Mr. Nelson on the 
right is very old and deaf and don’t go out much after 
dinner. I don’t know the name of the party on the 
left, he only came yesterday, but he didn’t leave his 
room last night—not till this morning and then he 
looked as if he was sick; he ain’t come in since, though 
he’s still holding his room. I don’t guess he’ll disturb 
you when he comes back.” 

This was disquieting news and after she had gone 


In the Next Room 137 

on her rounds George Roper paced the floor. Had 
his quarry eluded him, after all? It had been ridicu¬ 
lously easy to trace him here, but what if he did 
not return? Katie might be mistaken about his re¬ 
maining in his room all of the previous night, and if 
he knew anything about the murder it was not re¬ 
markable that he should have appeared ill in the morn¬ 
ing. 

His vague fears, however, were allayed almost at 
once, for the elevator door clanged and footsteps 
walking briskly down the hall paused at the next room 
on the left. George hastily took up his former posi¬ 
tion at the peephole as a key grated in the lock and 
a man entered his line of vision. 

He was a tall, thin individual, not unlike George 
himself, in general proportions, but there the resem¬ 
blance ended, for the stranger must have been at least 
twenty years younger, with a long nose, pointed chin 
and a wide low forehead, surmounted by short, thick, 
lightish hair. His ears were set higher up on his head 
than in most men and their tops stood out sharply as 
though strained in the effort to hear. 

While his neighbor watched he removed his coat, 
collar and waistcoat, and rolling up his sleeves he 
plunged his face and head in a basin of cold water. 
Then, taking some newspapers from the table where 
he had dropped them on entering, he drew a chair 
to the window. Cocking his feet comfortably on the 
sill he lighted a cigar and proceeded to read for an 
hour or more. 


138 The Handwriting on the Wall 

George noted that his eyes often strayed from the 
print, however, and for as long as five minutes at a 
time he would be lost in some reverie of his own that 
was evidently not a pleasant thought, for his brow 
was furrowed and his chin stuck out until it almost 
met the drooping tip of his nose. He studied the first 
page of each newspaper, then turned to the second 
page, and after that he flung it aside as of no further 
interest and took up another. 

There was no doubt in George’s mind as to what 
was holding his attention to the exclusion of every¬ 
thing else—the Monckton case. Once when he turned 
full in the direction of the connecting door the waning 
light of late afternoon struck his face and the watcher 
saw that he looked, if not physically ill, at least in 
deep trouble and perplexity. 

At last he rose and took a fresh collar from a 
drawer, and George Roper picked up his hat, and, 
waiting until he heard the key turn in the other door, 
he opened his own and strode to the elevator. As 
it descended he did not so much as glance at his fellow 
passenger and in the lobby paused at the cigar stand 
until the latter had left the hotel, turning west. 

Christopher Radwick walked slowly, aimlessly, as 
though his hour of meditation had brought no lifting 
of the burden that lay upon his mind; up one street 
and down another, pausing here and there to gaze 
absently into a restaurant or lighted shop window, 
he covered many blocks, but always that unobtrusive, 
shabby, clerical figure was in his wake, now almost 


In the Next Room 139 

fifty yards behind, now close at his elbow. It was 
nearly eight o’clock when he turned into a chop house 
and ordered a plain but substantial meal; the place 
was semi-deserted at that hour and the clergyman was 
not in evidence, but when Radwick left his shadow was 
again drifting along behind. 

The man seemed in a very fever of restlessness. 
He purchased a standing-room ticket at a musical 
comedy, but departed before the curtain fell on the 
second act, only to drop into a motion picture house 
twenty minutes later; but the screen did not hold his 
interest, for in a short time he was again on the 
street. 

Seemingly abandoning every effort then to escape 
from his own thoughts, he halted at an orangeade 
stand and then went back to his hotel, the shadow 
thankfully accepting his decision. 

If Radwick slept, he was abruptly awakened an 
hour later, for loud groans issued from the next room 
and were followed by a faint but insistent tapping on 
the connecting door. 

“What is it?” he called, bending close to the jamb. 
“Are you ill in there? Do you want me to send to 
the office for help?” 

“No, not that,” the answer came in painful gasps. 
“Sorry to—disturb you. Subject to attacks—know 
what to do—would you mind coming in for a min¬ 
ute?” 

“Right with you!” Radwick replied, and thrusting 
his arms into the sleeves of his dressing-gown he 


140 The Handwriting on the Wall 

padded out into the hall and to the other door, which 
he found ajar. 

The elderly clergyman in a long, white night-shirt 
lay doubled up across the bed holding his lean stomach 
with both hands and emitting hollow moans which 
seemed to come from the tips of his gnarled toes. 

“What’s the matter? What can I do for you?” 
Radwick advanced to the bed. “You seem to be in 
a bad way. Want a doctor?” 

“No. Gastritis—something’s poisoned me!” the 
sufferer groaned. “Over there—my bag—sorry 
bother—find bottle peppermint—” 

His voice died away in a distressing paroxysm, and 
the Samaritan crossed to the worn bag lying open on 
the floor and searched among a litter of shirts and 
collars, all somewhat frayed, till he came upon a small 
phial labeled “peppermint extract.” 

“This what you want?” He held it so that the 
sufferer could see. “Do I follow these directions?” 

George nodded, rolling his eyes, and Radwick went 
to the water basin, turning on the cold water and 
measuring twenty drops of the medicine into a glass. 

“That’s good!” the patient sighed, when he had 
drained it. “I ought to get some relief now in a few 
minutes. Would you mind—been very kind to a 
stranger—mind sitting with me—just a little while? 
Maybe have to—repeat dose.” 

“Glad to have been of any assistance, I am sure.” 
The voice of the neighbor from the next room was 
well bred and modulated, but he had a habit of hold- 


141 


In the Next Room 

ing his lips stiff and almost immobile as he spoke, 
although his words were clearly enunciated. “I wasn’t 
sleepy, anyway, and I don’t mind staying till you feel 
better. My name’s Radwick. Object if I smoke? 

His hand slipped into the pocket of his dressing- 
gown and then he glanced down in surprise, as though 
conscious for the first time of his attire. George sat 
up with a groan. 

“Cigars there on bureau—please, I insist! I’m 
Dr. Griffith Rhodes, Circleville, Ohio.” He pulled 
himself around straight on the bed, jamming the two 
thin pillows up behind him, so that he faced his guest 
over the low footboard. 

“Thanks.” Radwick selected a cigar from the 
handful lying on the dresser and, lighting it, seated 
himself in a chair by the center table directly beneath 
the light. “No wonder you knew what to take! You 
believe in the old-fashioned remedies, don’t you?” 

“Best there are, but I’m not that kind of a doctor. 
Divinity, not medicine. This is my first vacation in 
twenty-three years—first time East, too. You come 
here often, Mr. Radwick?” 

“About twice a year.” Radwick half closed his eyes 
in surprised appreciation of the quality of the cigar. 
“I’m just winding up a trip to Europe.” 

“Holy Land?” George lifted his head. “Dream 
of my life, to go there!” 

“No, china and porcelain factories. Worcester, 
Limoges, Dresden—all over. I’m head buyer for a 
Chicago concern.” 


142 The Handwriting on the Wall 

George pondered, groaning realistically at intervals. 
The fellow seemed willing enough to talk, even if 
he were lying, and glad to have a companion to listen 
to him. Was it that he wanted to get away as much 
as possible from himself and his own thoughts? 
Aloud, he asked: 

“Did you have a pleasant voyage home?” 

“Pleasant enough; I’m not crazy about the sea. It 
was smooth for this time of year and the ship was 
not crowded.” Radwick knocked the ash from his 
cigar. “Are you feeling a little easier yet?” 

“Some.” George clasped his stomach again. “It 
is a wonderful advantage—travel. What ship did you 
come home on?” 

“The ‘Tritonia.’ ” There was not the slightest hes¬ 
itation in the reply, but George started realistically. 

“Dear me! You don’t say so! Why, that’s the 
very boat that young man arrived on who went up 
last night and murdered his father! Perhaps you 
don’t read the papers? Terrible crime!” 

“Oh, yes, I do. You mean the Monckton case, 
don’t you? Yes, the young man crossed with me, but 
I’m not acquainted with him.” Radwick spoke with 
the utmost unconcern. “Nice-looking fellow, quiet, 
decent sort, to look at him. Couldn’t believe it when 
the papers came out this morning.” 

Confound it! George’s impatient movement was 
not all assumed. Radwick didn’t deny a thing; instead 
he seemed actually to have led up to the subject by 


In the Next Room 143 

volunteering the fact that he’d just returned from 
abroad. 

“Wickedness is usually masked in a pleasant ex¬ 
terior,” George remarked sententiously. “I read only 
the headlines but I struggled to find charity in my 
heart for the wretched man.” 

“Oh, well, he’s not convicted yet, you know,” Rad- 
wick reminded him tolerantly. “According to the 
papers there was every evidence of an attempted bur¬ 
glary and the police aren’t infallible.” 

George looked shocked. 

“They are the representatives of law and order!” 
he retorted firmly. “Did the young man Monckton— 
I have forgotten his first name—act strangely in any 
way on board ship—as though he were contemplating 
crime, I mean? I have never encountered a sinner 
against the law except minor cases in my small home 
town, and they were not among members of my con¬ 
gregation.” 

“Well, I’ve never contemplated crime, myself, so 
I don’t know how a man would act under those cir¬ 
cumstances!” Radwick laughed, but there was a note 
in his voice that sounded almost sinister to George, 
and his eyes gleamed with a sort of sardonic amuse¬ 
ment. “Very much like other people, I imagine. I 
didn’t notice Monckton in the smoking salon or taking 
part in any of the deck games, and if he came below 
for the ship’s concert I didn’t see him. He prome¬ 
naded about the deck or sat reading in a chair, occa- 


144 The Handwriting on the Wall 

sionally talking to a lady—I didn’t hear her name men- 
tioned—and he was regular at his meals in the dining- 
salon. He sat at the captain’s table and I just to star¬ 
board of it; and I know he happened to be there 
whenever I looked up and I never missed the call of 
the bugle, I can tell you. To be honest, I didn’t pay 
much attention to him.” 

This, at any rate, was a lie, if Lucian’s art dealer 
was to be believed. It wasn’t possible that Radwick 
could suspect the ailing clergyman of ulterior motives; 
w T hat could be his object in talking with such seeming 
frankness and at such length about a matter which 
he needn’t even have mentioned? Was he rehearsing 
in order to be letter perfect in his story if it were 
ever necessary to repeat it before a larger and sterner 
audience? 

His interest, in connection with Richard, might have 
nothing to do with the murder and what led up to 
it, providing the young man had actually killed his 
father; George felt that he was pulling on a very 
slender thread, after all, but orders were orders and 
it was Cliff’s turn. He would make one more effort. 

“You’ve seen more of the world than I have, Mr. 
Radwick. I’ve been tied to my little flock for the best 
years of my life, and I rejoice that I was called to 
that field, but you should be a better judge of human 
nature than I. What is your opinion of this affair?” 

“Haven’t any.” Radwick laid the stub of his cigar 
on the metal ash tray. “It’s fifty-fifty to me—burglar 
or son. We’ll see what the trial brings out, if it ever 


In the Next Room 


145 


comes off and I’m where I can get hold of the New 
York papers at that time; I’m leaving for the Orient 
in a couple of months for a cheap grade of pottery. 
I’m not condemning the young man in my own mind, 
just because he and his father were bad friends and he 
happened to be alone in the house with the body when 
he called the police, but neither does the circumstantial 
evidence prove that a burglar was actually there. It’s 
bad business any way you look at it. Personally I’d 
rather read the sporting page in the papers, any day, 
than the horrors. Say, you seem to be resting all 
right now, and I guess I’ll turn in. You look a little 
drowsy, Doctor, and to-morrow’ll be another day. If 
you should feel sick again, don’t hesitate to knock and 
I’ll be with you.” 

George had forgotten to demonstrate signs of dis¬ 
tress during the last quarter of an hour and the other 
had pleasantly but definitely dropped the one subject 
which it was to his interest to pursue. Moreover, 
he did feel sleepy, and Radwick would be right there 
in the morning, when he could plan his next move. 

With every evidence of gratitude for his neighbor’s 
ministrations he said good-night to him, and then lay 
thinking over the conversation which had just taken 
place. For the life of him, he couldn’t decide about 
the fellow, but he wished he’d put the confounded light 
out before he left. George felt too comfortably lazy 
to do it for himself and yet it bothered his eyes. What 
was it Radwick had said that was a lie? Somehow 
he couldn’t quite remember. . . . 


146 The Handwriting on the Wall 

A patient, prolonged knocking on the door aroused 
him at last to partial wakefulness and he saw that the 
electric bulbs had taken on a strange, theatric, orange 
glow in the long beams of sunlight coming in at the 
window. 

“Come in!” he called sleepily, and Katie opened the 
door and paused. 

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked anxiously. “Ail 
the morning I’ve been knocking but you didn’t hear, 
and when I see the electric'light still shining under the 
door, just now, I thought maybe I’d better call the 
house detective—!” 

The word “detective” brought George to his full 
senses and he sat up abruptly. 

“All the morning!” he echoed. “What time is it 
now?” 

“Four in the afternoon, sir.” 

He stifled a most unclerical ejaculation and his 
glance darted toward the connecting door. 

“The gentleman in there—?” he paused. “Dear 
me, what can he think! I had an engagement to take 
lunch with him.” 

“That’s funny!” Katie observed. “Maybe he left 
word for you at the office, though. He checked out 
at eight o’clock this morning.” 


CHAPTER XII 

‘wrong number!” 


AN hour after Barbara Norcross had left him, 
/-% Cliff Nichols journeyed downtown to the pic¬ 
turesque, grim old building where those await¬ 
ing indictment and trial for the more serious crimes 
were incarcerated, and he entered with mingled emo¬ 
tions. Once by the merest chance—and wholly un¬ 
deserved luck—he had avoided capture and detention 
in the Tombs because of some crisp new bills that had 
appeared in circulation under mysterious circum¬ 
stances, and even yet the memory made him shudder. 

He presented his credentials and five minutes later 
was shaking hands with his client in the visitor’s room. 
Richard Monckton, now that the blow had fallen, had 
regained his composure, and although pale and hag¬ 
gard he was calm. 

“I appreciate your coming so soon, Nichols,” he 
said. “But you can have little to tell me, and no news 
is not good news in a time like this.” 

“I can only tell you that the full strength of our 
organization is working for you, Mr. Monckton, ’ Cliff 
replied gravely. “Naturally, at our interview last 
night, you were too agitated to go fully into details, 
and every moment was precious, but we explained to 
you that we could accept your case only on the con- 
147 


148 The Handwriting on the Wall 

dition of absolute frankness. I have come to you now 
for additional information that only you can give us.” 

He had lowered his voice because of the guard sta¬ 
tioned at the door, and Richard frowned. 

“I think I told you my every move from the moment 
of landing from the steamer late yesterday afternoon.” 
He appeared to be reflecting. “I know I made every 
effort not to omit anything. I’ll be only too glad to 
tell you anything I can, of course.” 

“You told us that your affairs were in a crucial 
financial state and ruin stared you in the face, but you 
did not say that it was due, not to the ordinary luck 
of the game nor lack of judgment on your part, but to 
deliberate persecution.” Cliff spoke slowly and his 
client’s eyes flashed. 

“I didn’t see why I should, since it had nothing 
whatever to do with the murder of my father!” he 
exclaimed. “I’d only realized the fact, had it prac¬ 
tically proved to me, a short time before I sailed and 
I came home to fight! It’s my quarrel, though, and 
when I get out of here I’ll take care of it!” 

“That’s what the gangster says, Mr. Morickton, 
when he lies dying on a hospital cot with a stab in 
the back and he’s asked for the name of the man who 
has done him to death! Civilization and breeding 
don’t go very far under the skin with any of us!” Cliff 
Nichols smiled but his tone held a more dominant 
note. “Who is trying to ruin you, and why?” 

“I wish to heaven I knew!” Richard clenched his 
hands. “I only know that some faction, some indi- 


“Wrong Number!” 


149 


vidual, is out to get me, has been for years, and with 
no reason that I can conjecture! They’ve spent a 
huge sum doing it, for I’ve wriggled out and turned 
the tables on them more than once, and it’s not done 
yet!” 

“Have you the slightest idea of their identity, even 
without a shred of proof?” Cliff persisted and his 
client shook his head. 

“I haven’t the remotest inkling! That’s what 
makes it all the more inexplicable.” 

“You told some one, not forty-eight hours ago, that 
some one else had turned up everywhere you went, 
dogging you all over Europe. Who was it, Mr. 
Monckton?” 

“I said that!” Richard’s eyes narrowed and his 
agitation was suddenly quelled. “Who told you I 
did, Nichols? Not—not the person I was talking 
to?” 

“No. The conversation was overheard. You have 
not answered my question.” 

“I don’t know who the man was—some agent of 
the influence at work against me, I suppose.” There 
was every appearance of frankness in his manner now. 
“I can’t even say how far his personal operations ex¬ 
tended beyond watching my every move; but in every 
city, at every hotel, every railroad station and steam¬ 
ship landing, there the chap was practically at my 
elbow! These were only public places, where he had 
as much right as I and he never attempted to accost 
me; in fact he didn’t appear to even see me ! I couldn’t 


150 The Handwriting on the Wall 

complain, even when I realized that it was more than 
mere coincidence. I thought, at first, of demanding 
an explanation from him but then I decided to wait 
and find out what his game was. I didn’t connect 
the fact that all my plans fell through with his con¬ 
tinued presence, until just at the last, when a broker 
of unimpeachable reputation, with whom I had great 
hopes of concluding negotiations, refused my proposi¬ 
tion and as much as told me he had been warned off, 
that interests too powerful for him to buck had turned 
down their thumbs. Then I saw what that constant 
espionage meant—why, the fellow even sailed on the 
same steamer for home!” 

“Did you take the trouble to look him up on the 
passenger list?” Cliff asked. “His name there was 
Christopher Radwick, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes! What have you found out about him?” 
Richard demanded. 

“Nothing more than you as yet, if you have told 
me everything, but we are having him traced.” Cliff 
bent forward and lowered his voice still more. “Mr. 
Monckton, you’ll have to forgive me if I mention the 
name of a woman—several women, in fact—and trust 
me that it is absolutely necessary. They will undoubt¬ 
edly be brought into your trial if we are unsuccessful 
in preventing your indictment. First, I want to ask 
you about a certain lady. We know, in common with 
the rest of the world, of your engagement to Miss 
Norcross and that that engagement was subsequently 
broken; we know that you and she met on the ‘Tri- 


“Wrong Number!” 151 

tonia’ and the question I want to ask is—are you 
engaged to her now?” 

There was a pause, and then Richard said slowly 
and as though choosing his words with infinite care: 

“I am not engaged to be married to Miss Norcross 
or any one else. No woman in this world is bound to 
me by word or thought.” 

“Were you ever engaged to Miss Mary Andros?” 

“I never even proposed marriage to the lady, nor 
did it ever occur to me that she would have accepted 
me!” Richard replied with a touch of hauteur. “Nich¬ 
ols, your people appear to have been very zealous in 
unearthing gossip concerning my private affairs and 
those of others, but I could wish the same energy and 
cleverness had been expended in the effort to find the 
murderer of my father!” 

“My dear Mr. Monckton, the police accuse you of 
framing the evidence of the burglar’s presence. If 
such a theory is plausible to them, and to the public 
at large, might not another have preceded you, and 
having, for some reason, committed the murder, 
planted that evidence? I, personally, believe the crime 
was the work of a common thief, caught in his depre¬ 
dations by your father, but every possibility must be 
thoroughly canvassed. Incidentally, no possible stone 
is being left unturned to find the burglar.” 

Cliff had spoken with grave sincerity, and his client’s 
lowering face changed. 

“Pardon me!” he said quickly. “I’m on edge, and 
this all seems so utterly beside the point that I lost 


152 The Handwriting on the Wall 

my temper. I suppose I do not yet realize my position, 
but it is infinitely distasteful to me to bring the names 
of women into this hideous affair!” 

“That is why you told us the quarrel with your 
father was caused by your refusal to become a 
banker?” Cliff countered. 

“Yes.” Richard’s pallor quickened with a tinge of 
dull red. “That was a contributory cause, though; 
it was the supreme disappointment of my father’s 
life that I would not keep up the institution we had 
founded.” 

“We won’t go further into that now, then, but I 
want some information about your father’s house¬ 
hold. Let us begin with Mrs. Miller. She appears 
to be rather an unusual type for a housekeeper.” 

“She is. She was a country girl, I believe, and mar¬ 
ried the rural school-teacher, who obtained a position 
in the local branch of a banking concern and rose 
rapidly, being advanced to the parent house here in 
town and subsequently coming to our concern. He 
held a responsible position when he died fifteen years 
ago, and Mrs. Miller had done much to further it; 
but I believe they had lived up to his salary, and she 
was left with practically nothing. A position was 
offered her, but she refused it and disappeared for 
five years, then came to my father. 

“She shrank from any semi-public position and 
wanted to obtain one where she might remain in the 
strictest seclusion, and the upshot was that she came 
to our home, and, I believe, has managed it admi- 


“Wrong Number!” 


153 


rably.” Richard paused. He had spoken with evi¬ 
dent reluctance but with as evident an effort to be 
impartial, and with a reservation that Cliff mentally 
stored away for future reflection. “My father’s 
valet and the butler and cook are the only remaining 
house servants who were there when I left home, and 
the coachman and head gardener out at the Manor— 
at least Hood tells me they are still there, and he 
visited both the town and country houses occasionally. 
I cannot speak, of course, for the newer servants, but 
I am sure the old ones are thoroughly reliable.” 

“We shall look up those who have entered your 
father’s service since your departure, and their asso¬ 
ciates, also the servants of any of his house guests,” 
Cliff announced. “It is possible, of course, that the 
burglar was working alone, but in the majority of 
cases they have a confederate inside who tips them 
off. Now, to go back for a moment to the man who 
followed you through Europe and home again. You 
saw him fairly often; did he have rather a narrow, 
pointed face with protruding ears? Did you ever 
see him speak? I say ‘see’ because I want to know 
if there was any peculiarity of expression when he 
talked.” 

Richard stared. 

“You chaps are wizards! That’s the very fellow; 
and the peculiarity about his expression when he talked 
was that there wasn’t any! His lips seemed carved 
of wood and never moved! I thought you said you 
knew no more about him than I did!” 


154 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“We don’t!” Cliff smiled. “We’ve managed to 
obtain that much of a description of him, that’s all. 
I wanted you to verify it. Mr. Monckton, I have 
told you frankly what we have discovered that you 
did not tell us; I appreciate your reticence, but have 
you anything to add to your story of last night?” 

“What do you mean?” Richard seemed honestly 
surprised. “Don’t you think if I were concealing any¬ 
thing, for any possible reason, I’d know now how 
useless it would be, with your organization at work?” 

He spoke lightly, but the compliment did not turn 
his questioner from his purpose. 

“I mean in respect to the reason which brought 
you to your family home last night. Was the purpose 
other than the gratification of a mere impulse to see 
it once more?” 

Richard drew in his breath sharply, but for the 
moment made no response and a brief silence fell. 

“I hadn’t the slightest idea of encountering any one, 
nor did I wish to remove any souvenir of the past, 
if that is what you are getting at,” he said at last. 
“I wanted only to feel its atmosphere about me again, 
just for an hour. That is the only explanation I can 
give you.” 

This terminated the interview and as he made his 
way back uptown to the office of The Shadowers, 
Cliff Nichols went over every phase of it in his mind. 
When asked pointblank about his possible reengage¬ 
ment to Miss Norcross, Richard had said no woman 
was bound to him by word or thought. Had he not 


“Wrong Number!” 155 

meant that, under the hideous, newly arisen circum¬ 
stances, Miss Norcross was tacitly released from any 
agreement? His eagerness when he asked if Cliff 
had seen and talked with her had been undisguised; 
was he even then waiting for some word or sign from 
her? 

One fact was plain; he did not like Mrs. Miller. 
He had spoken of her with too obviously labored fair¬ 
ness, as though consciously, courteously omitting what 
might appear detrimental to her; but her presence in 
his father’s house was all too evidently unwelcome to 
him, and Cliff could read between the lines. 

He had begged the final question also, and Cliff 
realized that if any motive other than the idle im¬ 
pulse he had given existed, he would never reveal it. 

But Richard Monckton was innocent of the crime 
with which he was charged! Cliff’s conviction had 
received its deepest confirmation during this latest 
talk with his client. The young man’s own attorney, 
his friends and acquaintances, even the woman he 
loved, might believe him guilty, together with the 
other members of The Shadowers, but although Cliff 
stood alone, he would win his case! 

Yet he was not alone! Ethel believed staunchly, 
too, in Richard’s innocence, and in the past she had 
proved herself an ally not to be despised. With her 
to aid him, unknown to the rest of the organization, 
even to Rex, how much easier would his task be! 
She had brought off her most brilliant coups in mo¬ 
ments of rank insubordination; could she be depended 


156 The Handwriting on the Wall 

upon now to obey orders implicitly, and hold in stern 
check her propensity for assuming the initiative? 

When he inserted his key in the office door and 
threw it back, she glanced up hurriedly from her desk, 
and he thought she looked flushed and eagerly inter¬ 
ested; but he did not notice the almost surreptitious 
gesture with which she replaced the telephone receiver. 
His thoughts were filled with the new idea which had 
come to him and he demanded without preamble: 

“Any of the rest come in again, Ethel?” 

“No, Mr. Nichols. There haven’t been any mes¬ 
sages, either.” She gazed at him in surprise as he 
drew a chair close to her desk. 

“Then I want to have a little talk with you. I have 
work for you to do, lots of it, on this case of ours, 
but I can’t use you except on one condition—” 

“Oh!” she interrupted, clasping her hands. “You 
mean it? I’ll do anything, and I know the condition, 
of course! I give you my word that this time I’ll 
keep it! I won’t do a thing you don’t want me to and 
I’ll mind my own business, I will, truly!” 

“That wasn’t what I referred to, although it’s im¬ 
perative of course. I’m afraid I haven’t much faith in 
your ability to keep out of mischief, but I’ll risk it! 
Ethel, do you think Mr. Monckton killed his father?” 

“Why, Mr. Nichols, you know I don’t! I can’t help 
what the police think, he didn’t do it! I wouldn’t care 
who said so, I know it happened just the way he told 
us!” 

Her tone was indignant and Cliff smiled. 


“Wrong Number!” 


157 


“That’s the point! We know he’s innocent, you 
and I, but we’re the only people in the world, appar¬ 
ently, who do think so! The rest of The Shadowers 
have deserted us, even Mr. Powell. Oh, they’re all 
working still under my direction, but in their hearts 
they feel that it’s useless, that our client himself com¬ 
mitted the crime! Ethel, we two stand alone, and if 
you come in with me you’ve got to promise solemnly 
to keep it a secret. No one must know, not even Mr. 
Powell, till it’s all over. Is that clear? If there’s a 
chance of their suspecting, you must pretend to go 
away again, on any pretext you like. That’s my con¬ 
dition, and if you don’t choose to meet it—we won’t 
say anything more about it.” 

For a long minute there was silence while Ethel 
sat with bowed head, thinking hard, and when at last 
she spoke it was as though reasoning aloud. 

“I owe everything to Mr. Powell, who found me and 
took me out of—of what I was doing, and it’ll seem 
sort of horrid not to tell him; but then if you order 
me not to, I’ll be minding him after all, for he told 
me to do whatever I was told by the one who was in 
charge of each case. I don’t see how he can even 
think Mr. Monckton murdered his father, for he 
never makes mistakes; but then perhaps he hasn’t had 
time to figure it all out for himself,” she added loyally. 
“Anyway, I promise that no one shall know I am 
doing anything more than just the regular office work 
here, even if I have to take another vacation! I won’t 
do anything more on my own hook, Mr. Nichols, if— 


158 The Handwriting on the Wall 

if you’ll just let me call up a few more numbers; I 
was doing that when you came in, and I’ve been at it 
since you started downtown.” 

“More numbers!” Cliff slumped back in his chair 
and stared, as with a little smile she lifted the re¬ 
ceiver. 

“Hello? Six-o-nine-o Chatham, please. . . . Chat¬ 
ham Six-o-nine-o. . . . Hello, is that you, Sadie? . . . 
Miss Cohen. . . . She doesn’t? What number is 
this? .... That’s funny, isn’t that the Sobun Clean¬ 
ing Company? . . . Oh, O’Regan’s Garage? Ex¬ 
cuse it, please; wrong number!” 

“Of course it was!” Cliff exclaimed, as she turned 
to him again. “We’re after Six-o-nine-nine!” 

“Are we?” Ethel’s eyes danced. “Better look 
again at that tracing you made, Mr. Nichols. That 
pencil broke, all right, but not after the last ‘nine’ 
for there wasn’t any! That’s why I asked to see it 
under the magnifying glass, to make sure. The lead 
broke in forming the loop of the last ‘o’ and straggled 
down in what looked like the tail of a nine, but it 
wasn’t. We’ve been calling up the wrong number!” 


CHAPTER XIII 

A SHRED OF BLUE SERGE 


HE wrong number!’ ” Cliff repeated in 
dazed incredulity. Then with an ejaculation 



he sprang from his chair and rushed into his 
study, from which came the rustle of paper, clinking 
of reading glasses and then a prolonged silence, while 
Ethel waited demurely. 

When at length he reappeared, chagrin struggled 
with mounting hope in his expression, and he cried: 

“You win, Ethel! I can’t see for the life of me how 
I made that mistake, but it is an ‘o’ as you thought! It 
means we’ve all our work to do over again, but a 
fresh chance to find a clew. We’ll keep this to our¬ 
selves, for none of the others are working on the 
first number, except Henry, and we’ll soon have him 
back again! Now, what exchanges have you called, 
already?” 

His prediction was verified in another hour with 
the reappearance of a thoroughly disgusted medical 
expert, who plumped himself down in the nearest 
chair, puffing and glaring in speechless resentment. 

“Hello, Henry! What’s that you’ve got there?” 
Cliff eyed the large, legal-looking envelope clutched 
in one fat hand, and Henry held it out. 

“A clerk was asking the elevator boy just now where 


160 The Handwriting on the Wall 

our office was, and I relieved him of this. Said he 
was from Grosvenor Hood. If ever I tackle such a job 
again—!” 

“Oh, the duplicate lists I wanted of the servants 
employed at Monckton Manor, and those of the guests 
who stayed there.” Cliff glanced rapidly through 
them and then looked up. “Did you find number 
826?” 

“I did!” Henry Corliss announced with unwonted 
bitterness. “It was a dog hospital and a hiding-place 
for stolen thoroughbreds, if I don’t miss my guess! 
The big bruiser left in charge by the fake vet. must 
have got a hunch that I was a dick, for he told me 
to get out or be thrown out! It’s the third bawling 
I’ve had to-day over those confounded numbers—!” 

“Never mind, it’ll be the last,” Cliff assured him 
consolingly. “I’ll have to ask you to do some work 
that’s a little out of your line, though, Henry, for the 
rest of us are all busy. In this list of De Puyster 
Monckton’s guests since he opened the country house 
last month, only four ladies are mentioned, three of 
whom brought maids with them, but we’ll leave them 
aside for the time being. The gentlemen all brought 
valets and two of them chauffeurs, but among them 
all there are just three that I think will bear looking 
up now. You’ll find them all here in the city, if they’re 
still in the same situations. I want a line on Judge 
Abner Francis’ valet, whose only name here is ‘Isaac,’ 
Dr. Lowell Kibbe’s chauffeur, Paolo Galli, and Mr. 
Waldron Ingram’s valet, Hugh Brinsley. You’ll find 


A Shred of Blue Serge 161 

the judge and the doctor in the ’phone book and Wal¬ 
dron Ingram is the president of the Citizens and Aliens 
Trust Company.” 

“Hah!” Henry snorted. “And am I to go to the 
basement door and try to sell patent medicines to ’em? 
That’s the only way I know!” 

“That wouldn’t work, in this case.” Cliff repressed 
a smile. “Go directly to their employers, show your 
credentials, state that we are investigating the murder 
on behalf of Richard Monckton and ask for an inter¬ 
view incognito with these valets and this chauffeur, 
in order to quiet some suspicions we have about the 
servants at the Manor. That will do for an excuse.” 

“And what do you want me to find out when I do 
talk to ’em?” Henry asked skeptically but with return¬ 
ing good nature. 

“Study them!” Cliff responded. “You know a crook 
when you see one, don’t you? I want to know if 
‘Isaac’ and Hugh and the chauffeur are on the level 
and not spotters for some gang.” 

“God A’mighty, ain’t you given up the idea yet 
that there was a real burglar?” Henry rose wearily. 
“I might as well be on my way and get it over, but 
you’re drilling a dry hole, Cliff, sure as you’re alive!” 

“You heard, Ethel?” Cliff asked with a shrug after 
the medical expert had departed upon his uncongenial 
task. “That’s the way they all feel!” 

“Don’t you care, Mr. Nichols!” Ethel returned 
blithely. “It’s their own fault if they miss the big 
show, for we’re going to find that man!” 


162 The Handwriting on the Wall 

They spent a busy hour calling up the various ex¬ 
changes, but 6090 seemed to bring as little definite re¬ 
sult as the former number had done, and Cliff rose im¬ 
patiently at last. 

“Ethel, I’m going to run up to the Monckton house 
once more. There are only a few calls yet for you to 
try, and I’ll be back before dinner-time.” 

“All right!” She smiled up at him with undaunted 
enthusiasm. “I’m sure I’ll have some news for you 
when you come. I can feel it, just like I sort of knew 
we’d have something big, and couldn’t keep away 
any longer!” 

Her spirits were infectious and Cliff Nichols felt 
unaccountably cheered and encouraged as he left her 
and started uptown. It seemed impossible that, with 
only those hastily scrawled numbers to serve as a clew, 
they would be able, in all the teeming millions of the 
city, to lay their hands on the murderer of De Puyster 
Monckton; and yet his faith in the little blue-eyed 
ex-shoplifter had been confirmed. She was more of 
a handwriting expert than he, and if anything came 
of her discovery, the credit should be hers alone! 

The old house hidden away in its clump of trees 
loomed gloomy and foreboding in the early spring dust 
as again he turned in at the gate and proceeded up the 
drive. The burly Cerberus of the morning was still 
on guard at the entrance door and greeted him with 
a grinning nod. 

“Back again?” he asked. “Got some fresh dope 
on that burglar of yours?” 


A Shred of Blue Serge 163 

“You boys will find out when you try to indict my 
client!” Cliff laughed, returning the other’s manner. 
“Is the Miller woman here yet?” 

“Upstairs, somewhere. That old guy who came 
with her, Monckton’s valet, had a kind of a fit and 
they took him to the hospital; she says nothing’s miss¬ 
ing from the house as far as she can see. Uppish old 
dame, but she must have been some looker as a girl!” 

Leaving the plain-clothes man to his grudging admi¬ 
ration, Cliff mounted the front stairs, but went softly 
along the hall and descended the rear ones without 
meeting any one. Here sounds of wordy strife 
reached him from the tradesmen’s door, where a 
police official was evidently haranguing a ubiquitous 
reporter, and Cliff made his way hastily through the 
store-rooms and pantries to where the pane of glass 
had been removed from the upper sash. 

There were smudges of dirt, as Phil had reported, 
still lying on the floor and soiling the sill, but the 
most sanguine seeker for clews could not have de¬ 
clared positively that they were footprints. They 
had been scuffed about by the numerous police and 
detectives, and the ground and shrubbery outside were 
torn and trampled. 

It looked unpromising for any neglected clew but 
Cliff raised the sash and climbed cautiously out, drop¬ 
ping to the soft turf a few feet below. The spring¬ 
ing grass of the newly-grown lawn would have held 
no trace of a single prowler underlying the print of 
many feet, but a gravel path wound near, coming from 


164 The Handwriting on the Wall 

the direction of the stable and garage, and branching 
off toward the hedge interlacing the bars of the iron 
fence, and glancing quickly about him Cliff started for 
the boundary. 

It was along this path that the thief must have come, 
probably from the rear, back of the garage; he had no¬ 
ticed that open lots, strewn with bowlders and rank 
undergrowth, stretched beyond and the intruder must 
have planned his method of approach with the least 
likelihood of being seen. But his exit was not as he 
must have intended; in a desperate panic because of 
the thing which he was leaving behind he would have 
made for the nearest wall, the most direct way to the 
subway station, four blocks to the north. 

The previous night had been moonless but clear, and 
the starlight would have been bright enough to dis¬ 
close that path; surely fear-winged feet would have 
found and followed it instinctively. 

Distant lights were springing up now at evenly 
spaced intervals beyond the hedge and fence. The 
street lamps were lighted but day had not yet gone, 
and Cliff kept as much in the shelter of trees and tall 
clumps of bushes as he could to avoid the searching 
eyes of the patrol on the lookout for reporters and 
morbid sightseers. 

Within a few yards of the fence, the path turned 
abruptly to double back around a flower-bed toward 
the front of the house, but Cliff left it and made 
straight for the hedge. It was well-clipped but very 
old and the brown spaces in the tender green showed 


A Shred of Blue Serge 165 

where it was dying out. Cliff, bending low, moved 
along beside it, then turned and retraced his steps. 

Somewhere along here, he was morally certain, the 
murderer must have crashed through the hedge and 
scaled the fence, the sharp iron spikes of which were 
raised several feet above, but the dusk was deepening 
rapidly and there were any number of gaps in the 
hedge through which the fellow might have wormed 
his way. 

After all, how could he hope, in the gathering dark- 
ne.ss, to come upon anything that eyes far better 
trained than his would not have found in broad day? 
Cliff felt discouragement descending again upon him, 
and straightened to turn once more toward the house, 
when, as he raised his eyes, they fell upon something 
that held them transfixed. 

It was just a limp, dark object caught on one of 
the spikes of the fence and fluttering in the evening 
breeze. It looked like a shred of cloth but unless the 
wind had carried it and impaled it there it could only 
have been torn from the apparel of some one who 
climbed over, carelessly or in frantic haste. The hedge 
beneath was an unbroken mass of green, almost black 
now in the shadows, and revealed no sign of damage; 
but when Cliff assailed it the twigs, elastic with new 
sap, bent limberly and sprang back into place. 

He forced them aside and drew himself up the bars 
of the fence to reach and capture the fluttering shred 
of cloth. Then he dropped quickly down again and 
crouched beside the hedge immovable, for footsteps 


166 The Handwriting on the Wall 

crunched along the path from the front and the low 
murmur of voices came to his ears. 

“It might have been, I couldn’t say for sure. I 
haven’t heard him speak in six years.” The voice 
was unctuously smooth. “The call came at seven, and 
I did think it odd that he wouldn’t leave his name.” 

They were talking of the telephone call at Monck- 
ton Manor from the unknown man on the night be¬ 
fore! The speaker must be Peter Downes, the but¬ 
ler; the footsteps were uneven, short, trotting ones 
beside slower, heavy strides. Cliff reconnoitered 
warily and saw that it was indeed the butler, with the 
policeman who that morning had been stationed at 
the door of the dining-room. They were rounding 
the sharp curve in the path, going toward the garage, 
and the officer’s deeper tones reached him even more 
distinctly. 

“ ’Twould be better if you could swear to it,” he 
growled. “We’ll give you a chance to hear him talk 
downtown and then maybe you’ll be certain.” 

“Perhaps so and perhaps not.” There was .a world 
of meaning in the raised inflection. “I’ve got myself 
to think of and I’ve held my place for eighteen years. 
I’d not like to make a mistake that would lose it for 
me and bring me no thanks.” 

The voice trailed off into silence as the men dis¬ 
appeared, but Cliff had heard enough to illuminate 
the situation. It was the crudest attempt to influence 
a possible witness that he had ever listened to, but it 
showed that the authorities were not as sure of being 


167 


A Shred of Blue Serge 

able to make out a case as they had appeared. If they 
had decided on open bribery they would have em¬ 
ployed a more adroit emissary than the blunt po¬ 
liceman, but it was plain that Peter Downes would not 
be averse to an offer. 

He must be reckoned with, Cliff reflected, as he 
crept back to the house and slipping in the window, 
closed it after him. That snatch of conversation 
might prove of value to their client if he were ar¬ 
raigned before the murderer was found. That he 
would be, sooner or later, came with renewed con¬ 
viction to Cliff’s mind; that rag of cloth, now repos¬ 
ing in his pocket and which he had not even examined 
as yet, brought his confidence back in a wave, and 
there was an added jauntiness in his manner as he 
hastened to the front door. 

“On your way already?” the detective demanded 
jocosely. “Didn’t find your second-story worker’s 
visiting card or a lock of his hair, did you?” 

“Something more personal than that!” Cliff smiled 
in an infinitely superior way. “It’s no wonder you 
boys grab the first person in sight to hang something 
on, when you never lift your noses from the ground.” 

His tone was bantering, but the other’s gaze sharp¬ 
ened with suddenly aroused interest and he could feel 
it following him as he walked briskly to the gate. 

He could scarcely restrain his impatience to examine 
his find, and when once more the subway was reached 
the ride downtown seemed interminable; but he ar¬ 
rived at the office of The Shadowers, at length, to find 


168 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Ethel still in sole possession and wrestling with the 
telephone. 

“I’ve got just one number left, Mr. Nichols,” she 
remarked. “I had to hold Queensbridge nearly half 
an hour before it answered and then it was a ware¬ 
house !” 

“Your intuition didn’t register this time, did it?” 
he asked. “We’ll call that last number after a bit, 
but first I want to show you what I’ve found! Come 
into my study where there’s a strong light.” 

The torn fragment of cloth was of the cheapest 
dark blue serge, worn threadbare and shiny, with 
more cotton than wool in its weave; but the two could 
not have handled it more tenderly had it been the 
rarest fabric in the world, and Ethel would hear of no 
suggestion that it had been blown on the wind and 
caught by the fence spike. 

“That’s a piece of a trouser leg!” she declared. 
“You can see where it’s ripped from the seam on this 
side, and if it hadn’t been so old that it gave, the man 
would probably have been found tied up in a knot on 
the other side of that fence with a broken kneecap! 
He’s left-handed and his pants are torn; that’s some¬ 
thing to go on, if he hasn’t been able to get hold of 
another pair; and couldn’t you tell about how tall he 
was from the distance between those figures on the 
wall, and the floor? People usually write on a level 
with their eyes unless they’re looking down, don’t 
they?” 


A Shred of Blue Serge 169 

“By Jove, you’re right again!” exclaimed Cliff. 
“Anybody else but me would have thought of that at 
once, but I was so taken up with the writing itself 
that it never occurred to me. The fellow was rather 
tall, I should say—those figures were scrawled a little 
above the transmitter, as I remember, and quite far 
out at one side.” 

“That means his arms are kind of long!” Ethel 
nodded. “He’s farsighted instead of the other way, 
and he isn’t used to bending over a desk—he likes 
plenty of room. Mr. Nichols, we’re getting on!” 

“But that number!” Cliff thrust the fragment of 
cloth into the table drawer. “There’s one still that 
you haven’t tried? What exchange is it? I’ll give it 
a ring now myself.” 

“Parkside,” she responded promptly. “That’s up in 
that neighborhood of cheap flats around Hillside Park, 
isn’t it? I left it till the last because they aren’t ex¬ 
actly tenements like you’d expect a crook of that sort 
to come from.” Cliff turned to the telephone beside 
the array of inks and acids on his table. 

“Parkside, 6090,” he spoke into the transmitter 
and then added in an aside: “Don’t go away, Ethel. 
I may need you.” 

There was a pause, and the girl beside him drew 
in her breath sharply while he waited in mounting 
suspense. 

“Doesn’t answer,” the mechanically twanging tones 
of “Central” came to him at length. 


170 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“They must answer!” Cliff retorted with a desper¬ 
ate eagerness. The last number left! “Keep ringing 
them, please. I’ll hold the wire!” 

A faint, whirring buzz sounded in his ears and 
then there came suddenly a small, sweet, piping voice. 

“Hello! Who is it?” 

A child! Cliff’s heart sank like lead, but he asked. 

“Is Harry there?” 

“No, thir,” the childish treble lisped. “You don’t 
mean my uncle Charlie, do you?” 

“I mean Harry. I was told to call him up there. 
What is the address of this number?” 

“I guess he must be one of Uncle Charlie’s friends; 
so many of them call up here at our house. It’s 
Eighty-four West One Hun’red and Tenth Street; 
mamma only had the telumphone put in last week 
’cause Uncle Charlie wanted it. When she comes in 
do you want me to tell her anything for the other 
man?” 

The child was all by herself and lonesome, evidently, 
glad of some one to talk to. It seemed hopeless 
ground but Cliff ventured on a bold stroke. 

“Your uncle Charlie telephoned to Harry last night 
and gave him the new number. Harry expected to be 
there and I was to call him. I guess your mamma 
knows.” 

“I gueth tho.” The child seemed to lisp only when 
in doubt or embarrassed. “Uncle Charlie expected 
somebody else but they didn’t come and he was awful 
—oh, I forgot! I wathn’t to dare thay a word! 


A Shred of Blue Serge 171 

I’ll tell Uncle Charlie thombody called up for Harry, 
Good-by.” 

The distant receiver clicked in scared haste, and 
Cliff faced his new partner with shining eyes. 

“We’ve got it at last, Ethel! Put down this ad¬ 
dress, quick!” He repeated it to her, together with 
the gist of the brief conversation, and added: “That 
little girl’s Uncle Charlie expected somebody last 
night and when they didn’t appear he was either in 
a rage or scared stiff ! I fancy the latter, since she was 
warned not to mention it. The man he expected was 
the man who killed De Puyster Monckton!” 


CHAPTER XIV 


AN UNEXPECTED REUNION 

O N Saturday afternoon, when George Roper 
was awakened by Katie the chambermaid to 
learn that the kind Samaritan of the night 
before had stolen a march on him, he lay for some 
time after she had left the room, mentally kicking 
himself. 

He saw it all, now! Radwick had been “on,” from 
the moment that his new next-door neighbor stepped 
into the elevator to descend with him late the pre¬ 
vious afternoon, but to be sure he was trailed he had 
taken that devious, apparently aimless stroll, and a 
pretty dance he had led George! 

That accounted for his restlessness during the eve¬ 
ning when he had popped in and out of the theatre 
and moving picture house, and he was assured of the 
truth and prepared to face the issue when he started 
back to the hotel! 

George emitted a far more realistic groan than 
during his simulated suffering of the night before. 
What a complacent, self-satisfied old fool he had been! 
How Radwick must have laughed in his sleeve all the 
time! 

He’d doped that dose of peppermint, all right, and 
then sat there calmly waiting for it to take effect, and 
172 


An Unexpected Reunion 173 

meanwhile amused himself by giving George srope 
enough to hang himself; and he’d done it, higher 
than a kite! 

The chagrined Shadower writhed in spirit as he re¬ 
called that conversation. Radwick hadn’t noticed 
Richard particularly on board ship—oh, no! He 
wouldn’t express any opinion about the murder for 
a confoundedly good reason; and he’d had the gall 
to laugh when he said that, never having contemplated 
crime himself, he couldn’t tell how a man would act 
under such circumstances! 

So he’d been played for a sucker, had he? George 
flung the covers wrathfully aside and sprang out of 
bed with an energy that belied his years. The game 
wasn’t over yet, even though he’d been out-played, 
and he’d show that long-nosed, wall-eyed, son-of-a- 
sneak who the come-on was before he was through! 

Fate and his own cocksure carelessness had given 
him two stiff handicaps; the other man knew him, and 
knew his purpose, even if he couldn’t know what fac¬ 
tion he represented. Moreover, Radwick had an 
eight-hour start and would cover his tracks as he 
hadn’t bothered to do when he left the pier. 

It didn’t matter. George had a purely personal as 
well as professional motive now, and nothing should 
stand in his way! 

As he dressed hurriedly and rang for coffee he gave 
the situation earnest thought. He could only hope to 
get on Radwick’s trail again by outguessing him, and 
if the fellow thought he was a natural born fool, so 


174 The Handwriting on the Wall 

much the better. Radwick was shrewd, alert to grasp 
a situation and quick in his decisions, with a devilish 
sense of humor and almost uncanny self-possession; 
what would be his reaction to the knowledge that he 
was under espionage, and what step would he take 
beyond the initial one of departing in short order? 

Assuredly he would not go far from the scene of 
the crime, at least until the man he had trailed for 
so many months was indicted for it. Whatever his 
object, he had remained here before he knew that 
he was in turn being watched, and he must continue 
to do so. 

Descending to the lobby, George Roper bought a 
cigar and newspaper, and seating himself in a big 
leather chair near the entrance he smoked and scanned 
the headlines of the afternoon’s news. There were 
no developments of any moment in the Monckton 
case. The authorities gave sanguine but vague assur¬ 
ance that the problem would be cleared up immedi¬ 
ately and the murderer put on trial in record time; 
but the reporters themselves looked upon the arrest 
of Richard Monckton as a material witness as being 
conclusive and without fear of libel expressed their 
views more definitely, while the sob sister of the sheet 
came out with the usual maudlin tale, enhanced by a 
photograph of Miss Barbara Norcross borrowed from 
the society editor. 

The Shadowers, Inc., a hitherto unknown firm of 
private detectives employed by Richard Monckton to 
demonstrate the fact that his father had been killed 


An Unexpected Reunion 175 

by a burglar, came in for more or less facetious com¬ 
ment. They had been approached but had declined to 
grant an interview. 

George smiled grimly to himself as he pictured 
the form that declination had probably taken if Ethel 
had been the one to deliver it. Then he cast the 
paper aside, and rising, strolled over to a thickset in¬ 
dividual in light tweeds, with a purple necktie form¬ 
ing a background for an impressive but off-color dia¬ 
mond. 

“You’re the house detective?” he asked in his most 
urbane manner. “Have a cigar?” 

“Thanks.” The gorgeously arrayed person nodded. 
“That’s me.” 

“Come up to my room a minute.” One ministerial 
eye closed suggestively. “This is about the time of day 
when a few years ago it was customary to take a little 
nourishment and I find it difficult to accommodate 
myself to modern ways in my declining years.” 

The detective chuckled and followed him to the 
elevator, and when they were settled behind the locked 
door with the flask half-emptied, George remarked: 

“That was a queer character you had in the next 
room here. ‘Radwick,’ he called himself. He cleared 
out in a hurry this morning.” 

“Sure, but he paid up.” 

“I did, you mean!” George announced quickly. 
“He borrowed twenty-five from me last night, but I 
didn’t know it was for that purpose; he was going to 
show me the city.” 


176 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Yeah? There a lot of birds like that floating 
around and we do our best to protect the guests from 
them, but if they fall for the old line and don’t squeal 
till after the other guy’s made his getaway it ain’t up 
to us!” The detective spoke pleasantly enough but 
with an air of finality. “You’re lucky he didn’t nick 
you for more.” 

“Oh, I’m not complaining.” George poured an¬ 
other drink for his guest. “I’d just kind of like to 
know where he went.” 

“To Chicago, I guess. Anyway, that’s where he’s 
booked from, and when he settled his bill he asked if 
he could get to the Grand Central in ten minutes; 
that’s when the flyer starts.” 

“Chicago, eh?” George shrugged. “It wouldn’t 
do me any good to follow him for that twenty-five! 
Maybe you could tell me of some of the sights here? 
I’ve never been East before.” 

When the detective had descended to his duties 
once more, George packed his bag, paid his bill and 
asked at the desk when the next train left for Circle- 
ville, Ohio. The last half-hour had not been wasted; 
the house dick had been fixed by Radwick, that was 
plain. Otherwise he could have said that the de¬ 
parted guest simply walked out of the hotel with his 
bag, as George himself was doing, and let it go at 
that. Unless he was vastly mistaken, Radwick at the 
present moment was not more than a block or two 
nearer Chicago than when he left, for he’d stick 
around to get a line on what his follower would do. 


An Unexpected Reunion 177 

What George did do was to proceed to the corner, 
and pause after rounding it to glance swiftly up and 
down the avenue. The roar of the elevated road 
overhead was deafening, now that the day’s traffic had 
thinned, and he hurried to the station a block down 
to board the first uptown train, aware that his clerical 
garb and even the shabby bag he carried rendered 
him an easily identified figure. 

But it was more than an hour before he reached the 
genteel, slightly run-down boarding-house on Madi¬ 
son Avenue where he resided permanently. He had 
spent the intervening time in covering his tracks, and 
for a man who had succeeded in doing so when five 
states were on the lookout for him in connection with 
an original and lucrative swindle, the maze of the city 
made the task mere child’s play. 

Experience had taught him the futility of theatric 
disguises when a simple change of scenery would do the 
trick in a far more subtle and effective manner, and 
the person who issued from the boarding-house as 
darkness fell was still attenuated and stoop-shouldered 
with his lugubrious face unadorned with hirsute camou¬ 
flage. It was not the same person, however. This 
individual walked with a different step and bearing, his 
expression was entirely changed, and from top to toe 
he was dressed with an ultra elegance which bordered 
on the vulgar, although a second glance would have 
revealed the ravages of time and wear and the 
pathetic attempts to conceal them. 

Out of sight of the boarding-house he purchased 


178 The Handwriting on the IVall 

a carnation for his buttonhole from a flower-seller, 
and, swinging his stick more jauntily, he straightened 
and strode off toward Broadway with the lithe trained 
step of the old-time actor he represented. He lost 
himself in the crowd to disentangle himself and merge 
with another moving group, and so proceeded down¬ 
town to the neighborhood of the Fresno once more. 
The block to the westward sported two hotels side 
by side on the south and a third one directly opposite 
them; and it was to the latter that George directed 
his steps, paying in advance for a third-floor front 
room, and incidentally casting his glance quickly 
down the page of the register. 

There had been only a scant dozen arrivals during 
the day, no “Radwick,” of course, and no writing which 
to his untrained but keen eye even remotely resembled 
that signature at the other hotel. Should he recon- 
noiter a little or go to his room, order some food and 
start his problematic vigil? 

He decided on the former, despite its risk, and 
strolled back to Broadway in an aimless fashion; with¬ 
in the next half-hour he had made a circuit of every 
block in the immediate vicinity. If Radwick were 
watching for him he was keeping under too close 
cover to be near enough to identify this changed per¬ 
sonality. 

Ordering a quick bite in an obscure, basement res¬ 
taurant, George strolled about till nearly midnight, and 
then stopped at a news stand two blocks above the 
Fresno for a last edition before returning to his room. 


An Unexpected Reunion 179 

The quarter he deposited on the narrow counter, be¬ 
fore the youth, who stood in the little kiosk, rolled 
over the edge and down to the floor inside, and 
George bent forward to help look for it. His lean 
frame tensed suddenly and then he straightened. 

“Never mind, my lad!” he remarked in a grandiose 
manner. “Here is a dime in case that quarter isn’t 
found. Good-night.” 

Tucking his paper under his arm he strolled away, 
but once around the corner he quickened his steps, 
until he had gone completely around the block and 
halted in the doorway of a closed shop directly oppo¬ 
site the news stand again. 

When he had bent forward to look for the coin 
his eyes had encountered a bag just beneath the edge 
of the counter; the identical bag, unless his vision 
had failed, he had seen through his peephole in the 
next room at the Fresno! It was by the sheerest 
accident he had spied it; Radwick could not have an¬ 
ticipated that, and in five minutes it would be mid¬ 
night. Already the newsboy was stacking up his few 
remaining papers, preparatory to closing for the night, 
and he had only to wait. . . . 

At that precise moment hurried footsteps sounded 
along the almost deserted sidewalk and a man came 
interview making for the kiosk. It was Radwick! 
His head moved from side to side as he glanced 
quickly about him, and George shrank further back 
into the shadows of the doorway; the other passed 
without seeing him and halted before the counter just 


180 The Handwriting on the IVall 

as the youth was putting up the shutters. The bag 
and a coin changed hands and then began a chase, the 
intricacies of which even George’s wide experience had 
not prepared him for. 

Subway and tube, elevated, taxi and surface car, all 
came into play during the next hour as the man with 
the bag crossed and recrossed on his trail, doubling 
back and striking off at a tangent; but always the 
down-at-heel actor hung on tenaciously behind. 

It wound up at last at the Grand Central Station! 
Was Radwick going to Chicago after all? George’s 
mute question was soon answered, however, for his 
quarry broke into a run at the gates beyond which 
the Albany local was just pulling out and he swung 
himself aboard the next-to-the-last car while his 
shadow made a spring for the platform of the final 
one. 

Where was Radwick going? He must have been 
assured that he was free from espionage now. Who 
could be waiting in some up-state town for news of 
Richard Monckton and the long chase overseas? 

George hurried through the car and peered cau¬ 
tiously into the next one. Radwick was seated three 
rows within on the aisle, and his follower heaved a 
sigh of relief as he turned to his own day-coach and 
took an aisle seat in the fourth row, blessing the 
warmth of the night which caused the two end doors 
to have been left open so that he had an unobstructed 
view of the back of Radwick’s head. 

He kept his eyes upon it steadily as the train halted 


An Unexpected Reunion 181 

at one close-lying station after another, but it did not 
once turn around. Evidently Radwick was assured of 
his freedom, for he produced a newspaper and buried 
himself in its folds, and George was beginning to think 
they were in for a prolonged run when the train halted 
once more and the quarry sprang up and made for the 
door. 

George had paid the conductor for an Albany 
ticket, to be prepared for any intermediate stop, and 
as he dropped from the moving train and hurried after 
Radwick he glanced up at the sign above the station 
entrance and his heart gave a sudden leap. 

Pocantico Hills! Radwick was going to the country 
place of the murdered man, the father of the young 
broker whom he had trailed over Europe! 

With a thousand questions thronging his brain 
George walked softly and watched his step, for the 
village lay wrapped in slumber and the slightest foot¬ 
fall echoed alarmingly in the silence. Up the street, 
around the base of a steep little hill, and off along a 
broad thoroughfare that merged into a winding high¬ 
way, past clustered cottages and open fields to the 
lines of hedges and fences marking the boundaries of 
opulent estates, he trailed noiselessly after the figure 
ahead, who walked rapidly, with the assurance of one 
familiar with the way. 

They came, at length, to a high stone wall thatched 
with a luxuriant vine, and continued along beside it 
for a quarter of a mile or more, past huge grilled 
gates, inhospitably closed, to a gap in the masonry 


182 The Handwriting on the Wall 

partially protected by stout wiring, and here Radwick 
halted, skirmished about for a brief period and at 
length wriggled through and disappeared. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, George Roper 
followed and was creeping after him, in the direction 
of his vanishing footfalls on gravel, when a third 
figure stepped suddenly from behind a tall bush and 
the starlight glinted on the blue barrel of a most busi¬ 
nesslike looking pistol. 

“Hands up!” A voice ordered in a low but per¬ 
emptory tone. “I want you!” 

George chuckled to himself as he obeyed. The 
stick-up artist was Phil Howe! 


CHAPTER XV 


THE TRUTH ABOUT RADWICK 

O N Saturday morning, when Phil awakened in 
the little commercial hotel in Pocantico Hills, 
he whistled softly as he dressed. You couldn’t 
beat these French girls! They had style, even in a 
slinky cape, and a way with them that no American 
could begin to have, and that Lucie was pretty and 
spirited, too! The Lord only knew how she had 
stood this dead-alive place all through last summer, 
with nothing but a movie and an ice-cream parlor to 
offer diversion. Still, a girl like that would get atten¬ 
tion paid to her in a desert, and there must be a lot 
of nifty chauffeurs and butlers, foreign ones too, em¬ 
ployed at the big estates in the neighborhood. 

Phil’s impressionable fancy had been caught by that 
momentary streak of light from his electric torch, and 
he concluded that after all it wouldn’t do to return to 
the office of The Shadowers with an incomplete re¬ 
port. Cliff had told him to get in with the servants 
and find out all he could about the old guy and his 
friends, and had himself suggested making the ac¬ 
quaintance of some pretty maid in the staff. He was 
only obeying instructions to the letter! 

Pleasantly thrilled by his own virtue, Phil descended 
183 


184 The Handwriting on the Wall 

to the dining-room and had partially demolished a 
generous order of bacon and eggs when the traveling 
man who had scraped acquaintance on the porch the 
previous afternoon joined him at the end of the long 
table, and asked if he had been shooting pool the 
night before. 

“No, I took a walk,” Phil replied. “Is pool the 
chief dissipation around here? I noticed a movie 
house and a couple of ice-cream dens—” 

“I guess the best thing in the burg is the ’phone to 
New York!” the traveling man laughed. “It gets 
the girls, anyway. There was a mob of them waiting 
for turns at the booth in the drugstore last night, and 
some of them were lookers, believe me! They weren’t 
village belles, either, nor society dames, but there was 
one little queen—looked as if she might have been a 
governess, but oh, boy! what eyes, and how she could 
use ’em! Black as sloes, they were, with a laugh in 
’em, and a little, pointed chin, and a mouth like a red 
dab!” 

“Yeah?” Phil slowly lowered his fork. “Did she 
have on a white dress with a long, dark cape—?” 

“Dark gray, the cape was, almost black, and a little 
gray hat with a bright red feather!” the other supple¬ 
mented eagerly. “She talked like a foreigner, with a 
soft, purring little accent—that’s what made me think 
she might be a governess, for you could see she wasn’t 
—well, not a swell. Where did you meet her? Say, 
brother, if you can fix up a little party for to-night 
I’ll hire a car—?” 


The Truth About Radwick 185 

He paused hopefully, but Phil grinned and shook 
his head. 

Sorry, but I didn’t meet her; don’t even know 
who she is. I just passed her walking along the road 
last night with a fellow.” 

“She must have had him waiting around outside 
somewhere, then, while she ’phoned to another guy! 
You can’t beat ’em, even if you stack the cards, can 
you? I was right in the next booth and heard her 
call up 609— What’s the matter?” 

Phil was staring until his eyes protruded. 

“609—what?” he demanded. “That’s funny! 
What was the last number?” 

“Didn’t get it, or the exchange either.” The travel¬ 
ing man shook his head as he pushed aside his empty 
oatmeal saucer. “You could tell from her tone that 
she was talking to a john, though. They sure can 
put it over, can’t they? Did you think you knew that 
number?” 

“Sounded kind of like one I’ve got down in a note¬ 
book,” Phil replied. “It couldn’t be the same, though. 
Going to be here long?” 

He finished his breakfast and made his escape as 
soon as he could. That was funny, about the first 
three figures of that number Lucie had called in New 
York the night before. There wasn’t any doubt of 
the girl’s identity, for now that he had been reminded 
of it Phil did remember that spiky red quill in her 
smart little tarn. Why in the world had Lucie gone 
all the way to the village to telephone when the one 


186 The Handwriting on the Wall 

at the house must be available for the servant’s use? 
Obviously she didn’t so that her conversation would 
not be overheard by any others of the household. 
That couldn’t be of importance to the investigation, 
though, and the matter of that number was just a 
coincidence. 

Armed that afternoon with a large, flamboyantly- 
ribboned box and a bottle of perfume with a foreign 
label, Phil approached the gap in the stone fence at the 
Manor once more. The gates were still closed and no 
one was visible through their grill, but the intermit¬ 
tent beat and whirr of an engine from the direction 
of the garage showed that one of the cars was being 
tuned up, and, more distant, there was the buzzing 
drone of a lawn mower. 

With one free arm he lifted a strand of the wire 
barrier and, bending, crawled through and dropped be¬ 
hind the heap of loose fence stones, to take stock of 
his surroundings. Generations of landscape garden¬ 
ing had brought the grounds to the highest perfection 
of studied nature, a wilderness of great trees and 
massed shrubbery and lovely, unexpected vistas cun¬ 
ningly planned, but its beauty was lost on the unappre¬ 
ciative Phil. 

Why didn’t people have straight roads, and paths 
that a guy could follow in the dark if he had to, and 
clear away those old trees and bushes so they could 
see all around? He couldn’t be three hundred yards 
from the house and yet there wasn’t a sign of it, and 
how was he to find Lucie? Maybe she hadn’t meant 


The Truth About Radwick 187 

to meet him but had just been kidding; maybe she’d 
given him up and gone. . .? 

Then all at once it was borne in upon him that water 
was trickling somewhere near with a little splash as 
though it were falling over stones, and it seemed as 
though a tune ran along with it, like some one hum¬ 
ming in a low, soft contralto . . . He rose cautiously 
and looked to the left, farther along than the gap in 
the fence through which he had entered. 

A clump of dogwood trees and thicket, flowering 
shrubbery rose in a slight depression of ground, and 
through the meandering line of bushes that wound 
from it toward the house he caught glimpses of a 
path. Keeping parallel with the boundary he wormed 
his way in that direction, taking advantage of the 
screening undergrowth he had derided a moment be¬ 
fore, and when he reached the clump he forced the 
shrubbery apart and peered through the interlacing 
branches. A tiny stream rippled down the incline and 
cascaded over a miniature waterfall into a stone grotto 
that formed a quiet pool, and on a lichen-clothed 
ledge beside it Lucie sat sewing and humming a gay 
little tune to herself. 

She was prettier even than he had thought, with 
her small dark head bent over the foaming white 
needlework and her red lips slightly parted as she 
sang. Phil drew a deep breath and stepped forward. 

“Good-afternoon!” This time his debonair bow 
was not wasted in darkness. “I hardly hoped you’d 
be around, but I took a chance. I’m afraid you won’t 


188 The Handwriting on the Wall 

like these but they’re the best I could find in the vil¬ 
lage.” 

He laid his offerings before her and she reached out 
for them with a little cry of delight, the lace slipping 
from her knees to the ground. 

“Oh, how lovelee—Philip!” she exclaimed. “Me, 
I did not think to see you, one so often forgets next 
day the promises of the moment, but now you shall 
sit here and have some of your own so delicious choco¬ 
lates!” 

“I’d rather smoke—and look at you!” Phil seated 
himself on the soft, mossy turf with his back against 
a dogwood tree. “You’re mighty easy to look at, 
Lucie; did anybody ever tell you that before?” 

She paused, laughing, with a plump caramel half 
way to her lips. 

“But you are droll! Smoke your cigarette, and I 
shall keep these all to myself!—Unless you wish that 
I shall call your cousin Nora and share them with 
her?” 

There was a malicious little sparkle in the dark 
eyes and Phil demanded: 

“Have you been talking to her about me?” 

“It takes two to talk, M’sieu. I spoke of you, but 
Nora finds she has forgotten you; she cannot recall 
that you exist and it is odd, for she has a long mem¬ 
ory ! Mon Dieu, it goes back nearly seventy years!” 

“Holy Cat!” he groaned. “How was I to know 
how old she was!” 

“The same way you knew her name, M’sieu—and 


The Truth About Radwick 189 

mine.” Demurely Lucie slipped the candy into her 
small mouth and regarded him with polite inquiry. 

“I’m caught!” he acknowledged laughingly, but 
his dismay was not all assumed. How the devil was 
he to get out of this? Then a quick inspiration came 
to him. “I guess I’d better come clean! I would 
have told you last night only I didn’t want to scare 
you, but—I followed you from the drugstore!” 

“You—followed me?” The mischief was gone 
from her eyes and she stared stonily. She wasn t 
offended, a girl who would pick a fellow up the way 
she had? What was the matter with her? She wasn’t 
scared? “But how did you know our names, mine and 
Nora’s?” 

Lord, he hadn’t thought of that! 

“I asked!” he asserted glibly. “There was a man 
standing at the counter beside me dressed in chauf¬ 
feur’s livery, and when he saw me watching you go 
out he told me your name and that you were a maid 
here at the Manor. I asked if you were the house¬ 
maid, for right there I made up my mind I was going 
to meet you if I could, and he said no, that the house¬ 
maid at Monckton’s was Nora Delany. I thought 
Nora’d be young, too, so I was safe in telling you I 
was a cousin of hers, and I never believed you d be 
mean enough to ask her about me!” 

He contrived an injuredly reproachful tone but 
Lucie did not smile. 

“You followed me, yet you were here when I re¬ 
turned. You came from the direction of the house 


190 The Handwriting on the Wall 

and said that the dogs were to be turned loose on 
you!” she accused. Her voice wasn’t soft and pur¬ 
ring any more. 

“Hadn’t I found out where you worked, and didn’t 
the fellow tell me it was the only place around with 
a high stone wall with vines all over it? When I’d 
followed along behind far enough to be sure you were 
going straight home, I cut around the next turning 
and came across the grounds from the other side. 
That’s how the dogs heard me and commenced to 
howl. Gee, didn’t I take a chance of getting bit 
merely to see you again?” 

“What were you doing with the flashlight?” There 
was relenting in her tone and a suspicion of a dimple 
in her cheek, but she was still unconvinced. 

“I always carry one in the country,” Phil explained 
speciously. “You know I’m staying for a few days 
down at the hotel, looking for a likely spot along the 
roads around here for a garage.” 

“You were thinking, then, to put up a garage near 
Monsieu’ Monckton’s house in the city yesterday after¬ 
noon?” Her head was tilted slightly. 

For a minute Phil looked blank, then he laughed. 

“Oh, because I told you I’d been there looking for 
Nora? Say, the fellow in the drugstore told me this 
place belonged to the old millionaire who was just 
murdered and of course I’d read all about it in the 
papers. There was even a picture of the Manor in 
one of ’em and that’s how I found it so easy. If 
you hadn’t been so nice and friendly when I came on 


The Truth About Radwick 191 

you I was going to get in with the chauffeur here and 
meet you that way. Listen, I was in earnest; I don’t 
often act crazy like this, but I sure fell hard when I 
saw you, Lucie! You oughtn’t to blame me !” 

She smiled and selected another chocolate daintily. 

“That is the manner of you Americans. Always 
you—how do you say?—keed! It was very wrong of 
you, M’sieu Philip, and never would I have per¬ 
mitted you to talk to me but that I believed you were 
the cousin of Nora. I did not come here to-day to 
meet you, but because it will be triste at the house. 
They will bring home the body of poor Monsieu’ 
Monckton for the funeral to-morrow.” 

“I read in the paper that he’d be shipped home 
this afternoon.” Phil nodded, glad that the subject 
had been changed. “That man who used to come to 
see him—the one you told me about last night—do 
you think you would know him again if you should 
see him?” 

“I should not like to see him!” Lucie sniffed at 
the bottle of perfume, wrinkling her small nose as 
though to eliminate some offensive odor. “He has a 
sharp, suspicious face like a ferret and eyes that bore 
through one! Not that they bore through me, for 
I only peep at him when he does not see! Why do 
you ask of him, M’sieu?” 

“Oh, just curiosity!” Phil disclaimed hastily. “You 
believe the son killed the old man?” 

She shrugged. 

“What is one to think? That betise of a robber 


192 The Handwriting on the Wall 

—that is what we say camouflage. Would one do 
murder for an armful of old silver?” 

“Maybe not, but ‘one’ would knock somebody flat 
to avoid being pinched for it,” he remarked. 

“What is that, ‘pinch’?” she asked, frowning. “Is 
it argot of the thieves?” 

“Just ordinary slang for getting arrested!” Phil 
turned a rich red. Then the thought of those numbers 
scrawled on the wall returned to his mind and he ob¬ 
served: “I thought you’d never get through telephon¬ 
ing last night! You must be mighty fond of him!” 

“ ‘Him?’ ” she repeated. “And how do you know 
that I telephone to a ‘him,’ M’sieu Philip?” 

“What if I was just curious enough to get that call 
traced?” he asked teasingly, and then stared in sur¬ 
prise for the girl’s eyes flashed sudden fire. 

“You would not dare! But how could you? A 
pay-station, from that it is not possible to trace a 
call!” 

“Say, don’t get sore at me!” Phil pleaded. “I was 
only—teasing; of course I wouldn’t try even if I could, 
but I’m jealous. You’ve sure got me going, Lucie, 
and when I open my own garage out here . . .” 

He was thinking fast. So that was why she had 
walked all the way to the village instead of using the 
telephone at the Manor! It wasn’t only that she 
didn’t want to have that conversation overheard, but 
she meant to leave no record of the number! Was 
that the reason why she had looked so sort of scared 


The Truth About Radwick 193 

when he told her he had followed her from the drug¬ 
store? 

The private affairs of a servant of the household 
could have nothing to do with the killing of its mas¬ 
ter, of course; but Cliff had told him to be on the 
lookout for anything suspicious, and this looked like 
something more than a mere flirtation of hers, if she 
went to such trouble to keep her communication secret. 
Phil decided that, for more than personal inclination, 
the young woman’s further acquaintance might be 
worth cultivating, and suggested that he rent a car 
and take her for a drive that evening. 

Lucie shook her head regretfully but decidedly. 

“Not this evening, M’sieu Philip. Another time, 
perhaps, but to-night it will be expected that we all 
remain at home, because of Monsieu’.” 

That sounded reasonable enough, but there had 
been a little catch in her breath when she declined. 

“Aw, you could slip out, the way you did last night!” 
Phil ventured. “After all, Mr. Monckton wasn’t any¬ 
thing to you, and I may not be around here very long. 
I believe you’ve got another date!” 

“I haven’t!” Lucie retorted. “I cannot go, I should 
lose my place—!” 

“Well, you’ll lose it anyway, now the old man’s 
gone and his son’s in prison; there’ll be no one to keep 
the house open,” Phil argued. “If you don’t come to¬ 
night I’ll know it’s because of somebody else, and I’m 
going to be here anyway, and wait—!” 


194 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“You shall not!” Lucie’s voice trembled and, 
sweeping needlework and candy under her arm, she 
rose. “If you come near this house to-night I—I 
shall never see you, never again! I warn you, the 
dogs will be loose!” 

There was room for no doubt now! Her anger 
was unfeigned, but beneath it Phil’s sharp eyes read 
actual fear. What was going on to-night that she 
was afraid to have a stranger know? 

“Then it is another date!” To test her he rose 
to histrionic heights and cried. “It’s that fellow you 
’phoned to last night at 609—” 

“Stop!” The bottle of perfume fell crashing at her 
feet, sending up a wave of cloying fragrance on the 
still air, and her very lips went white. “You did trace 
that number, after all! I tell you, if you meddle in 
my affairs it shall be the worse for you! I do not 
know who you are nor why you have tried to talk to 
me, but I shall tell the gardener to watch for you, 
and hand you over to the police! Let me pass!” 

With a rustle of her starched white skirt she was 
gone, and for a moment Phil stood staring almost 
stupidly after her. Then he made his way through 
the gap in the fence and back to the village, with one 
resolve firmly fixed in his mind; he would carry out 
his threat, and be on hand that evening. It might be 
a jealous lover she was expecting, but if it chanced 
after all to be some one in whom The Shadowers might 
have a vital interest, he should not be allowed to slip 
through their fingers. 


The Truth About Radwick 195 

It was after nine when Phil approached the Manor 
once more and this time, in addition to his flashlight, 
he carried a small but serviceable pistol. The wind 
was rising now and the stars were obscured by a heavy 
cloud bank, but Phil smiled to himself at the deep 
silence which brooded over the vast estate. 

If Lucie expected a visitor she would take good 
care that the dogs were not only securely tied but 
silenced, and avoiding that gap in the masonry he 
dropped over the wall by means of a low-hanging 
branch, as he had on the previous night. There were 
several dim lights in the garage and outbuildings, but 
only one in the house and that from the rear, under 
the roof. The room of one of the servants, probably; 
was Lucie waiting for the time of her tryst? 

Taking up his stand behind a tree midway between 
the gate and the gap in the fence, where through a 
vista he commanded an unobstructed view of the 
garage lights faintly outlining the path leading to the 
house, Phil prepared himself for a protracted vigil, 
but it proved to be far longer than he could have an¬ 
ticipated. A distant church clock struck ten and eleven, 
and still no sound came to him but the whispering of 
the wind among the trees. 

The garage lights and those in the other outbuild¬ 
ings went out one by one, and when midnight sounded 
the glow from the upper bedroom in the house was 
extinguished and utter darkness reigned. 

Accustomed as he had been, in the pursuit of his 
previous vocation, to tirelessly vigilant waiting, Phil 


196 The Handwriting on the Wall 

found himself aching in every muscle and his eyelids 
growing heavy. That had been a fool notion about 
Lucie; she was probably asleep long ago. He didn’t 
understand those hot-tempered foreign dames, and he 
must have been too darn suspicious, looking for clews 
where there weren’t any. Still, he might as well wait 
a little longer, if he could only keep awake! 

He moved about cautiously, but in the pitch dark¬ 
ness he kept running into trees and tripping over roots 
and rocks, and finally he returned to his sentinel tree 
and sat down, leaning against it. His head nodded 
lower and lower and at last rested on his chest, and 
he slept. 

How long it was before he awakened Phil never 
knew, but he came to himself suddenly with every 
nerve tingling, and sprang to his feet, instinctively 
clutching his flashlight and pistol. 

He had a vague notion that some one had passed 
him in the darkness, but that couldn’t be, for some¬ 
body was coming now! Stealthy footsteps were creep¬ 
ing toward him, nearer and nearer from the direction 
of that break in the wall, and the cloud which had 
obscured the stars was gone. He shrank back in the 
shadow of a tall bush and when a gaunt figure loomed 
before him he stepped forward and ordered “Hands 
up!” 

The figure promptly stretched long arms above his 
head, but his shoulders were shaking oddly, and all 
at once a disgustingly familiar voice spoke. 


The Truth About Radwick 197 

“Anything to oblige you, Phil, but we’re wasting 
time.” 

“George!” The pistol was lowered and its owner 
demanded low but wrathfully: “What the hell are 
you doing here?” 

As if in answer a half-stifled cry in a feminine voice 
came from the direction of the drive and George ex¬ 
claimed: 

“Same thing you are! Come on!” 

They dashed forward, and around the turn in the 
driveway came upon a woman in a dark cape struggling 
in the grasp of a man. Phil flashed his light and at the 
same moment the woman wrenched herself from her 
captor’s hands and vanished among the trees, and 
George cried: 

“Grab him, Phil! That’s my man! That’s Rad¬ 
wick!” 

Phil obeyed and the stranger made no sign of pro¬ 
test. He seemed struck dumb by their advent, but 
when the flashlight revealed'George’s stern features 
he broke out with an oath that ended in a subdued 
chuckle. 

“The Reverend Doctor Griffith Rhodes again!” he 
gasped. “You two are dicks, are you? That’s a hot 
one! So am I!” 


CHAPTER XVI 

DOUBLE PLAY 

“1T\ ON’T try to come that on me!” Phil Howe 

1 1 declared in a threatening tone. “You’re 

here to meet that woman, she ’phoned to 
you last night!” 

“What woman?” Radwick stared from one to the 
other of them. “There’s a mix-up here, all right! 
You don’t mean the one I caught just now? Scranton 
Lucy?” 

“ ‘Scranton’—!” 

“Sure! She’s a common crook. Her husband was 
a member of the Dobson gang and got bumped off a 
year and a half—” 

“Let’s get out of here!” George Roper interrupted. 
“There’s a light gone up over there and—golly, hear 
those dogs!” 

A deep-throated baying arose upon the night and 
with one accord the three turned and started for the 
gap in the wall, George first and then Radwick, with 
Phil at his heels, grimly covering him with the pistol. 
They scrambled through the wires, crossed the road 
and, bending low, ran in the shadow of the opposite 
hedge till they came to a narrow, winding lane. Here 
with a simultaneous impulse they turned and dived 
198 


Double Play 199 

for the cover of some bushes growing by the side of 
the road. 

For a good ten minutes they crouched, scarcely 
daring to breathe until the excited baying died down 
and finally ceased altogether. Then George re¬ 
marked: 

“It seems to me that explanations are in order all 
’round, and this is as good a place to talk as we’re 
likely to find at this hour. You’re a pretty fast worker 
as a stick-up guy, Phil, but it looks as though you’d 
pulled a boner both times.” 

“I have, have I!” Phil exclaimed in high dudgeon. 
“Didn’t you tell me to grab this fellow, and how do 
you know he’s a dick? The whole thing may be a 
frame!” 

“You heard the dope Lucian got yesterday about a 
certain crockery buyer named Christopher Radwick?” 
George asked meaningly, but his discretion was lost 
upon Phil. 

“Holy Cat! The guy who chased Richard Monck- 
ton over Europe?” the latter cried. “Was that the 
job Cliff gave you—to find him?” 

“Look here, boys. Suppose we get this straight,” 
Radwick interrupted. “I can prove my identity all 
right, but you have the drop on me. If you will feel 
in the inside pocket of my coat you’ll find my permit, 
credentials, and a foreign passport which they forgot 
to collect at a frontier abroad. So you’re on the 
Monckton case? I thought so last night. Operatives 
for The Shadowers, aren’t you?” 


200 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Take him up on that, George!” Phil commanded 
grimly, ignoring the question. “I’ve still got him 
covered.” 

George obeyed, and held the flashlight while he ran 
hastily through the papers. 

“Wick’s Detective Agency, eh?” he commented. 
“Radway Wicks, proprietor. You’re Wicks himself! 
Our mistake, but we had to make sure. No wonder 
you stood aces high with that house dick at the ‘Fres¬ 
no,’ but he overplayed the hand you left him!” 

He returned the credentials and Phil sheepishly 
pocketed his pistol. 

“Or else you went him one better,” Wicks laughed. 
“I thought I put you to sleep rather neatly last night 
and I don’t know how or when you got on my trail 
again, but it was good work! I’ll take you on when¬ 
ever you want a job.” 

“Thank you, Wicks,” George replied with dignity. 
“My friend here and I are not operatives, but mem¬ 
bers of the firm ourselves—you guessed it, The Shad- 
owers. I have my police pass here, to the Monckton 
town house—” 

“Don’t bother—I’ll take your word for it.” Wicks 
waved the suggestion aside. “I only wish I’d known 
it last night, for we seem to have interfered with each 
other. I’m on a delicate private mission that has noth¬ 
ing to do with the murder you’re investigating; I can’t 
go any farther than that, boys, but I wish you all the 
luck in the world.” 

He rose and Phil asked suddenly: 


Double Play 201 

“Will you answer one question? I’m asking be¬ 
cause maybe your game has something to do with ours, 
after all, and we may be able to swop a little dope. 
Are you after that woman you call ‘Scranton Lucy’ ?” 

“Lord, no! I haven’t seen her in a couple of years 
and I don’t know what she was doing in the grounds of 
the Manor, but she wore no hat and it looks as though 
she were working there. I had it on pretty good 
authority that she quit the game and ran straight, 
after her husband was killed, but you never can tell 
about these crooks. I’ll tell you anything you want 
to know about that dame!” 

“What was her line when she stood in with the 
gang?” 

“Inside stuff. Lucy was a manicurist in a hotel 
in Scranton when she got stuck on a good-looking guy 
who stopped there for a while and threw his coin 
around like a Prince. A theatrical company was there 
at the same time with a star more famous for her 
jewels than her acting. They played Scranton two 
nights and on the second this million-dollar kid—he 
called himself ‘Regner’—disappeared; so did the star’s 
sparklers and—Lucy. That was about four years ago, 
and for the next two she helped to make things hum. 
She learned hairdressing, picked up a few French 
phrases and an accent and her lay was to take a job 
as lady’s maid with some rich woman, get a line on 
her jewels and how and when they could be got at, 
and then leave. 

“Days, sometimes weeks, would pass before any- 


202 The Handwriting on the Wall 

thing was pulled off and then she’d have an alibi that 
couldn’t be shaken; but the bulls were watching when 
she went to work for Almadora, the opera singer. 
They watched after she left, and they caught Regner 
turning the trick. He tried to run for it, then lost 
his head and fired, and they shot him full of holes. 
You’ve heard of the Dobson gang he worked with?” 

“Top-notchers—international jewel thieves!” Phil’s 
tone was one of awed respect. “Biggest in the game, 
weren’t they?” 

“They were, but not any more!” Wicks laughed 
shortly. “I helped break ’em up when they tackled 
a client of mine, and the ring-leaders are up the river 
or dead. None of ’em left but a few of the rough 
workers, and they don’t hang together or go after 
any big stuff. Lucy got out from under in time, but 
if there had been any ladies in Monckton’s family who 
were kind of careless with their jewelry, I’d say she 
was up to her old tricks again.” Wicks laughed once 
more, dismissing the subject. “I guess the coast is 
clear now and I’ll beat it; drop in at the agency any 
time you want a little help and I’ll be glad to see 
you.” 

“Fair enough! Same with us, but if you don’t see 
us any quicker than you saw Lucy last summer, you 
wouldn’t be much help!” Phil commented, adding sud¬ 
denly: “Say, she knows you, don’t she?” 

“Not to my knowledge. When I broke up that 
gang she’d already quit them.” Wicks eyed him cu¬ 
riously. “What do you mean about last summer? She 


Double Play 203 

wasn’t working the steamers or pulling off jobs on 
the other side, was she?” 

“Nothing like that. She was right here at the 
Manor the three times you called, but I guess you had 
other fish to fry,” Phil explained blandly. “She saw 
you, but didn’t know who you were. It looks as 
though you had the right dope; she must be running 
straight, to stay on the job in a place like that where 
there was nothing doing in her line, for more than 
a year.” 

“Why did you grab her if you didn’t want her?” 
George asked, quick to grasp the mental reservation 
hinted at in his confrere’s tone. 

“Running into her like that and recognizing her, I 
thought I’d get a little explanation of what she was 
doing there after two in the morning.” Wicks shook 
his head. “It does look suspicious, but that’s not my 
pigeon.” 

“I can explain that, myself!” Phil lighted a ciga¬ 
rette and flipped the match out into the road. “She 
slipped out to meet a sweetheart and was trying to 
get in late when she bumped into you. Wonder 
whether she’s beat it for fear you’ll hand her record to 
the housekeeper?” 

“You said she didn’t know who I was, and nothing 
was ever proved on her,” Wicks responded. “Before 
her husband got killed she’d left him; there were a 
dozen reliable characters, neighbors, ready to swear 
to that. If you’re still interested in her I guess you’ll 
find that she’s asleep, or pretending to be, in her room 


204 The Handwriting on the Wall 

at the Manor. Don’t forget to look in on me, boys; 
glad to meet new members of the same club.” 

George returned the polite invitation and the other 
left them and swung off down the road in the direction 
of the village. For a little time there was silence be¬ 
tween the two by the roadside, as Phil smoked reflec¬ 
tively and George ruminated on the unexpected turn 
of events. 

Then the latter spoke. 

“What was Wicks doing at the Manor last year? 
He didn’t deny having been there.” 

“Too clever to deny it, he knew we’d find that out 
if we hadn’t already,” Phil replied. “He came to 
see the old man.” 

“Not Monckton!” 

“Sure. He had three conferences with him, and if 
Lucy told me the truth he must have been hired to pro¬ 
tect the father from the son.” He repeated what Lucy 
had told him and added: “When I sprung it on him 
it was just a wild guess on my part from a kind of a 
slim description she gave me, but she didn’t recognize 
him, that’s certain. George, Pm beginning to think 
that maybe old Cliff is right after all! Lucy put it 
over on me good and plenty about being a French girl 
and all that; but I found out by accident three figures 
of a ’phone call she made Friday night and I’ve been 
right on her trail ever since. Wait’ll you hear!” 

When he had finished, George Roper said: 

“My son, you’ve something at last. I think Wicks 
took the logical view; she didn’t recognize him, nor 


205 


Double Play 

see you to-night, so it’s a safe bet she didn’t make her 
getaway just now in order to start the hue and cry 
after her; she’s gone back to her room, but in the 
morning early she’ll invent some excuse to beat it, and 
then is when we’ll have to be on the job. Mine is 
finished for I’m satisfied Wicks is who he declares he 
is; his photograph was on that foreign passport. 
Still, if Monckton hired him to trail Richard, why 
was he trying to sneak into the Manor like a thief 
himself? With the old man gone, his case is finished.” 

“Whatever his game is, he’ll try it again, so you’d 
better stick around with me,” Phil Howe advised. 
“There’s nothing we can do to-night without rousing 
that house and declaring ourselves, but I’m going to 
hang about and be right on the spot with the first 
streak of dawn. If Lucy beats it I’ll follow her, and 
if I don’t show up to report to Cliff before you do, tell 
him everything I’ve told you.” 

“I will,” George promised. “I ought to send word 
in now but I think I’d better keep on Wicks’ trail and 
find out what he’s up to; it won’t be difficult to pick 
him up again if he tries to lay low, now that I know 
who he is. I’ve had more sleep than I needed in the 
last twenty-four hours, and I’ll watch while you take 
a nap, if you like. Look what that confounded wire 
did to my frock coat I” 

Phil attempted to sound him as to his own ex¬ 
perience with Wicks, but George maintained a digni¬ 
fied and noncommittal reserve on that score and he 
finally gave it up and took his confrere’s advice. 


206 The Handwriting on the Wall 

When he awoke the stars had disappeared and a faint 
pink streaked the east. 

Together they crept down the turnpike once more 
and through the break in the wall. No one was stir¬ 
ring as they made their way cautiously around behind 
the garage and stable to a point where they could com¬ 
mand a view of the back door of the house and the 
tradesmen’s driveway which led to a gate far in the 
rear of the estate. A single dog gave voice but was 
soon quiet, and they settled themselves behind a screen¬ 
ing honeysuckle arbor to await the day. 

It came sooner than they had anticipated and with 
it signs of renewed life ih the house where the late 
owner was lying in state. The back door opened and 
a stout woman and a young girl, evidently the kitch- 
enmaid, could be seen moving about within. They 
were joined presently by a very old woman and then 
three men appeared. 

“That must be Nora, the housemaid,” Phil re¬ 
marked softly. “Lucie told me she was nearly sev¬ 
enty.” 

“And there’s Peter Downes the butler and Jim 
Ricks the old valet. I talked to them both at the 
town house on Friday,” George supplemented. “I 
don’t know who that third man is—the footman, prob¬ 
ably. If Lucie’s in the house I wonder why she doesn’t 
appear?” 

“Look out, George!” Phil warned suddenly. 
“There are three or four men coming out of that 
tenant cottage, the gardeners, I suppose, and here 


Double Play 207 

comes the garage helper. If there’s no sign of Lucie 
soon I’m going up to the house and ask for her.” 

But that step proved unnecessary, for in a few 
minutes more the girl appeared. She wore the gray 
cape and small hat with the red feather, and carried 
a trim black bag. 

“You were right, she’s making her getaway!” ex¬ 
claimed Phil beneath his breath. “She’s shaking hands 
with the butler—there, now she’s coming! I’ll let 
her get five minutes start and then trail her. Good-by, 
George, and good luck!” 

The slim, graceful figure walked quickly past their 
hiding place, without a sidelong glance, and down to 
the rear gate, pausing to close it after her, and turned 
in the opposite direction from the road which led to 
the village. When she had disappeared Phil made his 
way also to the gate but in a roundabout fashion, dodg¬ 
ing under every tree that offered protection rrom ob¬ 
servation. There was a low pedestrian gate beside 
the taller one and he vaulted it, then stood staring 
down the lane in the direction Lucie had taken. It 
was long and straight and white, with the black walls 
of different estates lining it on both sides, and no¬ 
where was the girl visible. Had she turned in at 
another gate to linger and see if she was pursued? 

Phil paused uncertainly but as the moments passed 
and she did not reappear, his anxiety increased. What 
if she were to cross through a neighboring estate on 
either side and strike off along the main road? What 
if she had telephoned from the Manor to have a car 


208 The Handwriting on the Wall 

waiting to pick her up and take her heaven knows 
where ? 

At last in desperation he hurried forward, but when 
he reached the boundary of the Manor, and the high 
stone wall gave place to a thick hedge, the girl stepped 
suddenly through it and confronted him. 

“Good morning, M’sieu’ Philip of The Shadowers!” 
She burlesqued her own accent of the previous day. 
“We both leave this so charming spot, it appears; shall 
we not travel together?” 


CHAPTER XVII 


LUCY INTERVENES 

P HIL HOWE gazed at the mocking red lips of 
the young woman standing before him in the 
country lane and he, too, smiled slowly, not a 
whit abashed that she had guessed the truth. 

“So you were wise, after all?” he asked. “Sure, 
we’ll travel together—that is, if you’re going my 
way?” 

“I thought M’sieu was coming mine!” she mur¬ 
mured demurely. 

“What ever you say! Here, let me carry that for 
you.” He possessed himself of her bag, which she 
relinquished without a murmur, and continued in his 
irrepressible bantering tone: “You didn’t think I’d 
stay on after you’d gone, when I’d come from the 
city expressly to see you? My dear Lucy, I’d follow 
you to Scranton, if you’d say the word!” 

She drew in her breath sharply, but for a moment 
was silent as they walked together toward the head 
of the lane. He glanced sidewise at her, but she had 
bowed her head, her dark lashes sweeping her cheek 
as she kept her eyes fastened upon the ground, and her 
profile told him nothing. 

At last she sighed plaintively and the accent was 
gone from her voice when she spoke. 

209 


210 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“I’m never going back to Scranton, only as far as 
New York, to find another place where I can hide and 
earn my living—till I’m recognized and have to move 
on again! Isn’t it hard that people won’t ever let you 
live things down?” 

So she was trying the sob stuff on him! He’d had 
a flash of her temper the day before and he knew she 
would give him short shrift now if she had nothing to 
conceal. On the other hand, he had everything to 
learn if he pretended to fall in with her game and 
could catch her off her guard. 

“Is that what you’re doing? Why do you stick to 
the same line, then, that you pulled when you were 
working in with the Dobson gang? I should think 
a manicuring table in a hotel or barber shop would 
suit you better, more like old times; it stands to reason 
the bulls are going to pull the records on you when¬ 
ever they spot you in a new lay.” 

Lucy Regner hit her lip but her tone was almost 
saintly in its gentle resignation as she replied: 

“No, I’m more used now to pretty surroundings and 
quiet, and the work of a parlormaid isn’t hard. I’ve 
been very happy this past year, and if only poor Mr. 
Monckton hadn’t been killed and you hadn’t come 
to try to drag me into it—! But I suppose I must go 
on paying and I shouldn’t complain!” 

“What makes you say I came to drag you into it, 
or give you away?” Phil Howe asked with a beguil¬ 
ing note of sympathy. “I didn’t act like it, did I? 
I could have gone straight to Mrs. Miller or the old 


Lucy Intervenes 211 

man’s lawyers, but as it is you’ve left of your own 
accord and a reference from there after holding your 
position so long ought to be worth having.” 

“You didn’t snitch on me because you wanted to get 
something out of me!” she accused, with a return of 
her natural manner. 

“Sure I did!” he responded in perfect good humor. 
“I wanted a line on the other servants and I thought 
you’d be reasonable and give it to me. We’re going 
to New York, you tell me? Are we walking there, 
or is there a station somewhere down the line?” 

They had come to the end of the lane, where it 
turned into the broad road running parallel with the 
turnpike, and Lucy pointed. 

“There’s something better—a garage. We can 
hire a car to take us to the next station on the line. 
Oh, think of the reporters and police detectives there’ll 
be on the trains because of the funeral to-day! If we 
could only—!” 

She paused, and Phil understood. Well, why not? 
It would mean a prolonged tete-a-tete, but if he could 
convince her that he believed she was running straight 
she might let something slip. 

“Say, why not motor in all the way to the city? We 
ought to be able to make it in a couple of hours with 
any kind of a car and I asked you to go for a ride with 
me, didn’t I?” he urged. “How far is this ga¬ 
rage ?” 

“Only just around that turn ahead. That’s what 
I meant to do if I was alone, but maybe they won’t 


212 The Handwriting on the Wall 

have a car,” Lucy spoke uncertainly and then flashed 
him a sad little smile. “Where is our ride to end, 
Philip? At headquarters?” 

“Aw, you know better than that!” Phil exclaimed 
reproachfully. “Anywhere you want to go, of course, 
and if they haven’t a car they can tell us where we can 
get one.” 

But when they came to the small garage and serv¬ 
ice station a dingy and rather ramshackle sedan was 
available, and the mechanic lounging about volun¬ 
teered to take them to the city for a flat rate of twenty- 
five dollars. 

“An open car would have been nicer—?” Lucy be¬ 
gan doubtfully. 

“Still, if this bus can travel, it’ll be better than the 
train,” suggested Phil. “Where are we going?” 

“To 140 New Golder’s Green Road,” she answered. 
“It’s a little street in the Bronx only lately cut through, 
but if this boy don’t know how to find it—?” 

“I know it, all right,” the mechanic volunteered. 
“My sister lives near.” 

The arrangement was concluded and they started 
along the road, the roar of the motor settling into a 
steady, high-pitched, singing hum that made Phil nar¬ 
row his eyes. The car was evidently assembled of 
many heterogeneous parts, but if he knew its voice, 
that was a Duplez Special motor and high-geared, at 
that. What was it doing with a soap-box flivver body 
and tin wheels? 

Lucy wrinkled her nose at the stale, musty odor 


Lucy Intervenes 213 

within and he lowered the windows and then turned 
to her. 

“That’s better, eh? Tell me, Lucy, is it on the 
level? Have you cut out the old game?” 

“It wouldn’t be any use to try to convince you.” 
She shrugged. “If you know as much as you seem to, 
you’ll remember that the ladies I worked for as maids 
were all very fond of entertaining and dress—and 
jewels. Is it likely that I would have stayed for more 
than a year in the household of only one old gentle¬ 
man?” 

“Well, it isn’t up to your former speed,” he ad¬ 
mitted. “Still, it’s funny how burglaries always follow 
in your wake, isn’t it? Even now!” 

“But not murder!” Lucy twisted her hands to¬ 
gether and the horror in her voice was unfeigned. 
“There was never any rough stuff—!” 

She halted, but Phil Howe nodded quickly. 

“I know; not until the time Regner was bumped off, 
and he started it then.” 

“It was the end for me!” she cried in sudden pas¬ 
sion. “I only—did what I did because of him, and 
nothing could ever be fastened on me; he saw to that! 
You can’t frame me for what I’m saying now! It’s 
all over, and nobody can connect me with this awful 
thing!” 

“I don’t want to, but how about the guy, the one 
who grabbed you in the grounds last night? Did you 
recognize him? It was pretty dark.” 

“Not till he spoke, but the stars were out and it was 


214 The Handwriting on the Wall 

bright enough for me to see his face. I couldn’t mis¬ 
take that, it was the man I told you about; the one 
who came three times in the early summer to see Mr. 
Monckton.” 

“Sure, it was!” Phil relaxed a trifle, grinning. 
“It’s lucky for you he didn’t happen to spot you last 
year, for he knew you all right!” 

“Is he one of The Shadowers, too?” Lucy turned 
wide eyes upon him and he shook his head. 

“Nope; he isn’t a bull, either.” 

“Of course not, or Mr. Monckton would never 
have talked to him about his son. It’s all true, what 
I told you! He did say that his death would some day 
be laid at his son’s door!” 

“And why were you listening, if you hadn’t some 
little game of your own to play?” Phil demanded. 

“I told you—I was curious.” She glanced for a 
moment out of the window at the hedgerows flying 
past. “His visits seemed to have such a queer, bad 
effect on the old gentleman. He knew what was com¬ 
ing to him, some time or other, and that frame-up of 
a burglary didn’t even take in the bulls. Oh, it is 
wicked to try to connect me with it! His son did it, 
he must have, and how could I know anything about it 
just because I—because there’s an unproven record 
against me?” 

“How could you?” Phil Howe echoed, with no 
trace of sarcasm. “Even if his son didn’t do it, there’s 
nothing to show that the burglar was enough of a 
top-notcher to travel with what’s left of the Dobson 


Lucy Intervenes 215 

gang, or that you’ve had anything to do with them for 
two years or so.” 

“Yet you came after me, you trailed me from Fri¬ 
day on, you knew when I telephoned to Mrs. Wilson 
from the drugstore, you had her number!” 

“‘Mrs. Wilson’?” 

“Oh, you know very well!” Lucy made an impa¬ 
tient little movement of her hands. “Bronx, 6093. 
She’s the friend I’m going to now, at New Golder’s 
Green Road. I’ve known her since just before I went 
to work at the Manor. She’s a dressmaker, a decent, 
fine woman and she doesn’t know anything about me 
except that I’m a widow and have had a lot of 
trouble.” 

“You went to the bother of going to the village to 
’phone her instead of just calling her from the Manor; 
you’ve got to admit it looked kind of funny under 
the circumstances,” Phil remarked, adding suddenly: 
“Say, have you noticed that this lad goes all around the 
outskirts of every village we pass instead of straight 
on through?— Listen, bo, what’s the idea? Why 
the detours?” 

He had stuck his head out of the window and the 
youth grinned back over his shoulder. 

“I’ll get you there just as quick, mister, make it up 
in the open country, but I got plenty summonses 
around here and they’d lay for me if I was only hittin’ 
it ten miles an hour.” 

“Another case of giving a dog a bad name!” Lucy 
murmured. “I had to go to the drugstore Friday 


216 The Handwriting on the Wall 

night for some aspirin for a headache, and I thought 
Fd call up from there at the same time, because Mrs. 
Miller is always trying to listen in and it makes it un¬ 
comfortable to know there’s somebody at your 
shoulder. I told Mrs. Wilson that Fd get down to 
see her to-day if I could.” 

Phil reflected. The traveling man had said he 
could tell by her voice that she was talking to a “john” 
but he might have been kidding. Still, there was the 
difference in the last figure of the number; it wasn’t 
what was written on the wall. 

“You’re sure you didn’t call up 6099?” he asked. 

Lucy stared at him and then burst into laughter, 
with an hysterical note in it that she must have 
been conscious of herself, for she choked it back 
swiftly. 

“Of course I am! Didn’t I get Mrs. Wilson her¬ 
self?” she retorted, then sighed again. “When you 
came yesterday afternoon and I knew you’d been spy¬ 
ing on me I thought you were going to take me down 
to headquarters and rake up all the past, and Fd be 
questioned and warned and all, over again! Fve been 
trying so hard to forget, and after this last year I 
hoped Fd be left in peace!” 

Their horn sounded twice as she stopped speaking 
and Phil glanced out, but nothing was ahead in the 
road and their pace had slackened. They were in the 
open country once more with wide meadows on one 
side stretching away to a distant orchard, and, on 
the other, the spreading golf course of a country club, 


Lucy Intervenes 217 

which flaunted its flag and gay awnings far on the 
top of a hill. 

No one appeared on the links and he could make 
out the lines of but one single touring car drawn up 
before the club veranda. 

“Pretty early in the season for that kind of joint 
to doll up on Sunday,” Phil remarked, and turned 
again to his companion. “No one’s going to bother 
you, Lucy—!” 

He halted with his jaw dropped, for he was staring 
straight into the muzzle of a small pistol as business¬ 
like in appearance as the one he had flourished on the 
night before, and which now reposed ineffectually in 
his hip pocket. He made an instinctive reach toward 
it, however, but stopped at the cold menace of the 
woman’s tone. 

“None of that!” she cried sharply. “Stick ’em up, 
and keep ’em up! I’m going to make sure nobody 
bothers me, least of all a bum, amateur dick! Come 
on, Bert, I’ve got him covered, and if I have to shoot 
they’ll think it’s a punctured tire! Make it snappy!” 

The youth, still grinning, had climbed down and 
opened the door, and in a flash he produced a gag and 
several short lengths of trolley wire. 

“Get down on the floor, quick!” he ordered, while 
Phil glanced desperately down the deserted road and 
calculated his chances of being heard if he lifted his 
voice. Lucy had belonged to the Dobson gang and 
she’d stick at nothing, now that it was a question of 
being involved in murder! He knew the implacable 


218 The Handwriting on the Wall 

killer’s look and it was in her eyes at this moment! 
He shrugged and dropped ignominiously to the floor 
of the car, while the young gunman expertly frisked, 
and then bound and gagged him. 

“Car’s coming!” Lucy Regner warned suddenly in 
a low, tense tone. “Look at your rear wheel, Bert, I’ll 
keep him down below the window!” 

The sound of an approaching car was indeed borne 
nearer and nearer to them as “Bert” closed the door 
and bent leisurely over the wheel, but that threaten¬ 
ing gun was pressing against Phil’s ear now, and he 
was helpless, anyway, with that confounded gag tear¬ 
ing his mouth apart and the wires cutting into his 
wrists and ankles. 

He uttered a strangled oath that was some relief 
to his feelings as the other car passed and its humming 
was lost in the distance. 

Lucy laughed again. 

“Don’t waste any time when you get loose trying to 
locate my friend Mrs. Wilson!” she advised jeeringly. 
“There isn’t any Golder’s Green nearer than London! 
—Roll him out, Bert, and over the ditch through that 
opening in the hedge. There’ll be a golfer or two 
around in the afternoon to find him, or a course-keeper 
to-morrow. By-by, Philip, don’t pick up strange girls 
in future!” 

Her jibe was lost as he was dragged from the car 
and bumped into the ditch, from which a hard boot 
prodded him through the hedge and rolled him to the 
shade of a tree near a bench on the green. He was 


Lucy Intervenes 219 

lying on his face in the new, tender grass but he heard 
the slam of the car door and the woman’s triumphant 
laughter above the roar of the motor as it sped off 
down the road. 

With a violent wrench Phil turned himself over and 
heaved his body to a sitting posture, straining his eyes 
wildly for a sign of life about him; but the links were 
as deserted as the road, upon which a little cloud 
of dust was slowly settling, and there was no human 
habitation in sight on the other side of the road, while 
the club house was too far away for a cry or gesture 
to have attracted attention even had he been able to 
make one. The gag was an increasing torture and the 
slightest movement made the wires that bound him 
grind deeper into his flesh. 

But greater than his physical suffering was the hu¬ 
miliation of his predicament. To think that he, one 
of the slickest yeggs in the country, had been kid¬ 
naped by two cheap crooks in broad daylight, trussed 
up and thrown here to wait until the problematical 
coming of some one to liberate him! Still, Scranton 
Lucy had been a full-fledged member of the redoubt¬ 
able Dobson gang, she wasn’t exactly a tyro; there was 
some salve to his injured vanity in that, and if he were 
a “bum amateur detective” as she had called him, he’d 
show her up yet! The very fact that she had been at 
such pains to rid herself of him proved her complicity, 
if not in the actual murder, then in something almost 
as bad that was going on, and he’d get her before he 
was through. 


220 The Handwriting on the Wall 

But how easily he had been trapped! Phil mentally 
writhed at the thought. He had asked for what was 
handed to him, begged for it! If the other Shadowers 
were ever to know of this! 

How had she got word to her buddy, the young 
gangster with the camouflaged car, and planted him so 
conveniently to steer Phil to! What had “Bert” done 
with the garage man? Sent him off down the road 
somewhere on a towing job, probably, and offered to 
take charge till he could get back. She was a good 
actress, that Scranton Lucy; her hesitation about the 
closed car and the story of her troubles, told to keep 
him from following the roads too attentively, had 
been well put over, considering that he ought to have 
been leery, knowing what she was! 

A muffled groan forced its way through the gag. 
Would nobody ever come along? The sun wasn’t even 
nearly overhead yet; it couldn’t be more than ten 
o’clock for they’d started pretty early. Phil remem¬ 
bered how narrow and rutted the road had been, with 
no other car upon it since they had left the last vil¬ 
lage, except the one which passed while he lay help¬ 
less; it was no doubt a back way rarely used and there 
was no telling when any one else would travel by, 
especially on a Sunday when the cars all flocked to 
the main turnpike. 

He’d never seen a golf course before without some 
cuckoo old guys chasing a ball around on it, but as he 
remarked to Lucy just before she stuck him up, it was 
early in the season, and it would be like the way his 


Lucy Intervenes 221 

luck seemed to be running now if he died there of 
starvation! 

The pangs of hunger were gnawing at him, making 
him light-headed. Phil recalled that he’d had nothing 
to eat that day, not a morsel of food since the sloppy 
dinner at the hotel the night before; he’d give some¬ 
thing for a cup of that weak, greasy-looking coffee 
right now! His throat was dry and swelling and his 
wrists and ankles felt as though those wires were red 
hot, searing into them! If only—! 

All at once his heart missed a beat and then started 
racing again, for a little white sphere had come bound¬ 
ing over the top of a bunker and a young masculine 
voice reached him, a rather unpleasant voice, cultured 
but with a nasty, jibing note in it. However, no music 
could have been sweeter to Phil’s ears and heedless of 
the anguish it caused him he flung himself flat and 
started rolling violently toward it. 

Two masculine figures loomed into view, with a 
smaller laden one in tow, and all three halted for a 
moment in stupefaction, then rushed down upon 
him. 

“What’s up? Some tramp having a fit?” The 
young voice queried. “Don’t touch him! Let the 
caddie run back—” 

“No! Stay here, boy. Can’t you see, Norcross, 
that the fellow’s bound and gagged? Here, my man, 
just a minute and we’ll have you loose. . . .” 

The older, drawling tones trailed off into silence 
and it was as well for the speaker as for Phil himself 


222 The Handwriting on the Wall 

that the latter was gagged, for the face bending over 
him was that of Lucian Baynes ! 

The jewel expert of The Shadowers recognized him 
at the same moment and unobserved by the strange 
young man in foppishly correct golf attire and the 
staring caddie, an instantaneous message flashed from 
eye to eye of the two colleagues. 

The wire was untwisted from his wrists and the 
gag snatched from his mouth and Phil sat up weakly, 
trying to force a grin of reassurance to his distorted 
lips, but bright spots danced before his eyes and the 
blood surging suddenly through his arms brought 
sharp stabs of agony. Then a vacuum flask was pre¬ 
sented to his mouth and ice-cold coffee trickled in a 
delicious stream down his parched throat, and in a 
moment speech came. 

“Thanks—awfully. Friends of mine.” It was a 
mere croaking whisper with unexpected rasps in it, 
but he managed to convey to Lucian Baynes that he 
understood and there was to be no recognition. “Prac¬ 
tical joke, carried too far, that’s all.” 

Lucian was at work upon his ankles now, but the 
young man stood superciliously by and the caddie still 
stared open-mouthed. 

“You mean you don’t want the police notified?” the 
young man asked incredulously. “This looks rather 
odd to me, Ballantyne; we’d better not have anything 
to do with it. He doesn’t appear to need any further 
assistance and the sooner he’s off the grounds the 
better.” 


223 


Lucy Intervenes 

Phil had risen weakly and now he stood rubbing his 
wrists and wondering how he could manage a word in 
private with Lucian Baynes. The name “Ballantyne” 
had illuminated the situation for him as far as his 
colleague was concerned; Lucian, under the guise he 
had formerly assumed to the prosperous traveling 
public, was evidently doing society for further data 
on their client, and he had called the young snob with 
him “Norcross.” 

He must be the Chester Norcross whom Richard 
Monckton had publicly thrashed, the brother of the 
girl to whom he had been engaged, and a good job, 
too, Phil concluded, glowering at him; but how was he 
to get Lucian aside? The jewel expert solved that 
problem for him. 

“Your friends probably took your money from you, 
too, didn’t they?” he asked, and at Phil’s nod he 
added: “Here, I’ll stake you to your ticket back to New 
York, if that’s where you want to go, and show you 
the way to the station. Come along if you think you’re 
able to make it now.” 

Heedless of young Norcross’ further expostula¬ 
tions, he led the way to the opening in the hedge and 
pointed down the road, then took out his wallet. 

“Go to the office as quick as you can!” he exclaimed 
in a hurried undertone. “No time for explanations 
now, but something’s wrong there and Ethel’s gone 
again! She has left The Shadowers!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


DESERTION UNDER FIRE 

E THEL JEPSON had spent the forenoon of Sat¬ 
urday in unaccustomed solitude, for not a single 
member of the firm had put in an appearance 
and there were no messages. She was in a fever of 
impatience and suspense, and when at last Cliff Nich¬ 
ols phoned she begged anxiously for news. 

“Tell you later; nothing very much but we’re on the 
right track.” The buoyant note in his voice was un¬ 
mistakable, however. “You know what I tried to get 
out of our client yesterday; I want you to go down 
and see him yourself this afternoon. Do you mind? 
It isn’t a very pleasant place—” 

“Mind?” Ethel caught him up. “I’m dying to go, 
Mr. Nichols! Will they let me in, though?” 

“Yes, I’ve arranged for that; just give your name 
and take one of our cards with you,” Cliff replied. 
“Find out, if you can, the reason why he doesn’t like 
the housekeeper and where she might have been dur¬ 
ing the five years before she took that position, and 
also the exact state of affairs existing between our 
client and the lady who crossed on the same steamer 
with him. Do you understand?” 

“Perfectly. Shall I come straight back here, Mr. 
Nichols?” she asked eagerly. “I do so want to know 
224 


Desertion Under Fire 225 

what’s going on, and there hasn’t been any word from 
a soul!” 

“I didn’t expect any!” Cliff laughed. “Yes, I’ll 
meet you at the office about four.” 

Ethel felt no such squeamishness as her superior 
had done in entering the Tombs, but only a lively in¬ 
terest and curiosity, and she greeted Richard Monck- 
ton when he appeared with a matter-of-fact friendli¬ 
ness that robbed the situation of any embarrassment 
for him. Clifford Nichols had given her a free hand 
and she meant to make the most of it. 

“Mr. Monckton, I suppose you think it’s funny, 
my coming to you?” she began without preamble. 
“You see, I’m a little bit more than just office manager 
for our firm; I work right along with them on cases 
and they tell me everything.” 

“I was told that I might place every confidence in 
you, Miss Jepson; thank you for coming to me.” Rich¬ 
ard smiled faintly. “You have some news?” 

“Well, I hadn’t any instructions to tell you this, but 
we’re really on the trail of that burglar. There isn’t 
a doubt but we’ll be able to prove very soon that he 
was there in your house Thursday night even if we 
can’t pick him up right away, though we’ll do that, 
too, later!” 

She spoke with serene conviction and Richard’s 
worn face lighted with heartfelt relief. 

“Thank God!” he cried. “I can’t tell you what 
that means to me! But it is certain? You are not 
saying this simply to reassure me?” 


226 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“It is the truth, Mr. Monckton!” Ethel asserted. 
“I don’t think I’m at liberty to tell you any details, 
but we’ve traced that number he wrote on the wall, 
and now you’ll just have* to be patient, for it’s a wait¬ 
ing game.” 

“I’ll wait months, years, if it means a final clear¬ 
ing of my name!” exclaimed Richard. “I hadn’t the 
slightest fear that I could be convicted of such a hid¬ 
eous thing but the thought of the trial was a living 
horror. I couldn’t even be sure that you people be¬ 
lieved me! Why should you when the police didn’t, 
and every one else has deserted me—!” 

He broke off, but the sudden bitterness in his tone 
was sharper than that of a man condemned alone by 
public opinion. Some one on whose faith he depended 
had failed him, and Ethel’s sympathetic eyes saw the 
truth. 

“Don’t you believe every one’s deserted you!” she 
declared warmly. “Maybe they’re keeping away from 
here because they think you would want them to, but 
they’ve been to other places for you! I may be saying 
more than I should but I know you won’t give me away, 
and I didn’t make any promise not to tell you! What 
if somebody’d come to us, somebody who knew you 
weren’t guilty, and wanted to help you any way she 
could without your knowing?” 

Barbara Norcross had not come to help but to seek 
reassurance herself; Ethel was well aware of that, 
but she could not resist giving him that grain of men¬ 
dacious comfort, and the truth had never been of the 


Desertion Under Fire 227 

least importance to her unless it happened to serve her 
ends. 

She felt amply rewarded when their client took both 
her hands and wrung them heartily and said with a 
little quiver in his tones: 

“Bless you, Miss Jepson! I know what you mean, 
but I couldn’t be sure! I hardly dared to hope! All 
the circumstances were against me and why should 
any one have believed in the face of such a damning 
chain of evidence!” 

As though to conceal his emotion he reached in his 
pocket for the thin platinum case and took from it a 
cigarette, rolling it nervously between fingers, that 
shook slightly, and Ethel announced: 

“Everybody ought to have believed you if they’d 
had good common sense! I knew right from the start 
that there wasn’t any question of your having had 
anything to do with it, and Mr. Nichols never wasted 
a minute in a different direction than going straight 
after the man who killed your father, Mr. Monckton; 
but other things will come up that we’ve got to an¬ 
swer.” 

“I appreciate that fact.” Richard spoke slowly, 
tapping with the cigarette on the case as he had done 
during the interview in The Shadowers’ office. “I’d 
like you to know, Miss Jepson, that I feel very grate¬ 
ful, more than satisfied with the way you have taken 
hold of the affair, and especially with the view which 
you yourself have taken. A woman’s intuition is sel¬ 
dom wrong and it encourages me to believe that others 


228 The Handwriting on the Wall 

may be brought to feel as you do. You’ve no idea 
how it bucks a fellow up !” 

“Oh, well, I don’t matter,” Ethel remarked flatly. 
“I might be able to help, though, in the things that 
perhaps you think don’t mean anything in the investi¬ 
gation because they don’t bear directly on the murder. 
They count, anyway, and we don’t want them sprung 
on us without a comeback. That Mrs. Miller, for 
instance. She was playing* some sort of a game, we’re 
wise to that, for she doesn’t belong in any housekeeper’s 
position, but she stuck it out a long while—ten years.” 

Richard glanced down thoughtfully at the cigarette 
as a few grains of tobacco spilled from its loosened 
end upon his hand, but he made no effort to light it 
and the guard by the door who had been watching 
unobtrusively for such a move, turned away. At 
length the client looked up again into his questioner’s 
eyes. 

“I told Mr. Nichols her history.” 

“But not all of it!” Ethel countered. “You said she 
disappeared for five years after her husband’s death 
until she came to your father. She must have talked 
a little about those five years. It would be a natural 
enough question for anybody to ask her where she’d 
been, especially as she was supposed to be broke.” 

“I didn’t ask her!” Richard disclaimed hastily. “I 
believe she told my father she had traveled almost con¬ 
stantly, and I’ve heard her speak of some place in the 
west—Laramie, if I remember rightly. She—she al- 


Desertion Under Fire 229 

ways seemed satisfied with her position as mistress of 
my father’s house.” 

An inkling came to Ethel with his last words, and 
she said bluntly: 

“She’d have been more satisfied to have it perma¬ 
nently, wouldn’t she? She’d known what it was to be 
country poor, and then had a few years of society and 
high living in the city, only to have it swept away. 
She was still good-looking, and pushing, and schem¬ 
ing—” 

“Ah, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that!” Richard 
expostulated. 

“I know you wouldn’t; that’s why I’m saying it 
for you !” Ethel retorted. “She knew your father was 
sympathetic about her troubles, and so she hung on 
year after year, making herself necessary to him, and 
counting on his being soft enough to marry her as he 
got older! You were in her way, and I’ll bet she 
helped on the trouble between you and your father 
all she could!” 

“I have no proof that Mrs. Miller had any designs 
on my father.” Richard smiled again, deprecatingly. 
“It would be caddish of me to say so; my father would 
never have dreamed of taking such a step, and it is 
all over now. If he hasn’t left her well provided for 
in view of her long service, I shall arrange it. I have 
never been aware of any open hostility on her part.” 

That was that! Ethel drew a deep breath. She 
had judged the young man in her shrewd little way 


230 The Handwriting on the Wall 

at his first coming to The Shadowers and her belief 
in him was intensified now, as her impulsive sympa¬ 
thies were more strongly enlisted. He was crazy about 
that girl who didn’t care enough to have faith in spite 
of everything; that was patent, but just what under¬ 
standing, if any, existed between them when the 
steamer docked three days before? Cliff Nichols 
wanted to know and Ethel had no intention of fail¬ 
ing him if she could help it, but it was going to be 
hard in the face of Richard Monckton’s perfectly 
pleasant but aloof manner. 

“Mr. Monckton, you told Mr. Nichols that you 
weren’t engaged to be married, but somebody else 
seems to think you are, somebody that ought to know,’’ 
she declared shamelessly. “Of course nothing’s been 
announced and maybe you don’t feel that it’s any of 
our business, but it may be brought out if they actually 
held you for trial before we get the goods. Is it true 
that this other party misunderstood? That you were 
just—kidding?” 

“She acknowledged it?” The cigarette dropped 
from his fingers and rolled upon the long table at the 
end of which he sat. “She stood by me even to—to 
that extent, in the face of everything? I thought of 
course that she would shrink from it now and I would 
never have tried to hold her—” Again he checked 
himself and a deep red flushed his cheeks. “Tell her 
not to come here, Miss Jepson! I will not see her 
again till I can come to her a free man with the stain 
of this horrible accusation wiped away forever! Tell 


Desertion Under Fire 


231 


her—but I am not supposed to know that she has been 
to you! I can trust you to—to say the right thing, 
and you’ve given me a new lease of life! Will you 
come again?” 

“If Mr. Nichols will let me.” Ethel rose. “Just 
you remember that we’re working for you every 
minute!” 

“I’m certain of that.” Richard shook hands once 
more with undisguised fervor. “I shall wait as pa¬ 
tiently as I can.” 

Ethel left with her brain on fire. Their client must 
be cleared, and soon! He was one of the nicest boys 
she had ever seen and that girl wasn’t half good 
enough for him, but if he wanted her he should have 
his chance! She burned with impatience to further his 
cause, and when she reached the office of The Shad- 
owers she found Cliff Nichols awaiting her and burst 
upon him like a small whirlwind. 

“What did you find out at 840 West One Hundred 
and Tenth?” she demanded. “Did you find the family 
and talk to the little girl? Did she tell you the name 
of the man who was supposed to call her uncle up that 
Thursday night and didn’t?” 

“You mean have I got the murderer handcuffed in 
my study now?” Cliff shook his head at her. “Ethel, 
it isn’t going to be as easy as that! I found out from 
the janitor that only two families have telephones in 
the house and there’s a ten-year-old girl named ‘Bessie’ 
in one of them, on the third floor rear, but I haven’t 
caught a glimpse of her. Our ’phone call last night 


232 The Handwriting on the Wall 

must have given them the alarm and they’re keeping 
the child close. It wouldn’t do any good to get into 
their apartment on some pretext; I’ll have to watch 
and try to spot ‘Uncle Charlie’ and gain his confidence, 
and it’s going to take time.” 

Ethel opened her lips to speak but evidently 
changed her mind. Her cheeks were flushed and her 
breath came fast, but when at length she spoke it was 
to say meekly: 

“Is that all? That sounds like days and days when 
every minute counts, and suppose Uncle Charlie 
doesn’t show up for weeks. What’ll you do?” 

Cliff Nichols shrugged. 

“What can we do?” he asked. “That’s the only 
clew we have and there is no other way to follow it. 
Did Monckton tell you anything?” 

“He just let on without knowing it that a guess or 
two of mine was correct.” Ethel told of their client’s 
unconscious admission of the renewed engagement and 
of the housekeeper’s long-deferred hopes which death 
had finally shattered. 

When she had finished, Cliff nodded. 

“I thought so, but I wanted to make sure. You 
needn’t wait, Ethel; just leave a note for any of the 
boys who might drop in to meet me here to-morrow 
afternoon.” 

“You’re going back uptown?” There was blank 
disappointment in her tone. “Isn’t there anything 
maybe I could do here? If I could get in with the 
kid’s mother in some way—?” 


Desertion Under Fire 233 

Cliff shook his head resolutely, ignoring the plead¬ 
ing in her tone. 

“Not a chance, Ethel; it’s too risky! I’m not afraid 
you’d make any slip that would give us away, and with 
your remarkable luck and cleverness, my dear, you 
might be able to pick up some valuable clews, but 
there’s a killer with his own life to fight for, and his 
friends and accomplices will stick at nothing! We 
can’t afford to take a chance with your safety now! 
I’ll see you to-morrow afternoon, and meanwhile just 
try to forget all about it.” 

Forget it? Ethel sat lost in deep and earnest re¬ 
flection after Cliff had taken his departure. Forget 
it, even for a minute, with Richard Monckton’s worn, 
anguished face before her, his pathetically hopeful, 
brave voice still ringing in her ears? Let twenty-four 
more hours pass while he waited, and Cliff Nichols 
watched for a man who would be suspicious of over¬ 
tures for many a long day to come? Could she close 
her ears and keep her twitching fingers from meddling 
with the case as she had with the others? She pursed 
her lips and a slow, unmistakable light dawned in her 
eyes. 

The next morning when Lucian dropped into the 
office he found Rex Powell there before him. His 
face was very grave, almost stern, and he held two 
notes in his hand. 

“Cliff here?” Lucian Baynes asked. “I haven’t 
succeeded in arranging an introduction to Miss Bar¬ 
bara Norcross but I’ve got the next best thing, al- 


234 The Handwriting on the Wall 

though it’s highly distasteful! My old steamship ac¬ 
quaintance presented me to young Chester Norcross, 
her brother, at his club last night, and although he is 
an unmitigated swine I’ve accepted his invitation to 
play a round of golf with him this morning out at the 
Willowmere Club. I’ll let him beat me with just 
enough trouble to make it interesting, and that ought 
to be good for an invitation to meet his sister. Have 
you been busy?” 

“Very much so, but I’ve only succeeded in having 
general rumors corroborated and in discovering that 
our client’s associates, and even his friends from uni¬ 
versity days, have unanimously taken the police view 
of the case.” Rex held out one of the notes. “Ethel 
left this last evening, evidently under instructions from 
Cliff. He’ll be here this afternoon and wants all of 
us to meet him if we can.” 

“Ethel left this last night?” Lucian read the slip 
and frowned. “Isn’t she coming here to-day? That’s 
odd; never could keep her out of things before when 
we had an investigation on!” 

“Ethel will not be here,” Rex Powell replied slowly, 
as he extended the second sheet of paper. It was 
not typed but carefully written though under some 
stress as the erasures showed. “I am afraid that this 
time we have really lost our secretary!” 

There was a deep note of pain in his voice, but Lu¬ 
cian Baynes did not heed it as he stared at the words 
beneath his eyes. 


Desertion Under Fire 


235 


Dear Shadowers, 

Hope you won’t mind but I’m going away again for a 
little while. There doesn’t seem to be any way I can help 
you now and you don’t need me. Maybe you won’t want me 
to come back but I will have to take a chance on that. Don’t 
worry about me. I shall be quite all right and I hope you’ll 
forgive me. Please don’t go to Mrs. Gorham, I told her 
Mr. Powell was sending me away on business for him, but it’s 
really my own. With best wishes for success and good luck, 

Ethel Jepson. 

“So she’s had enough of us!” Lucian exclaimed. 
“That taste of society life has spoiled her for the 
work here and I can’t blame her, but by Jove how we 
shall miss her!” 

“You think it’s that?” Rex asked. “You don’t 
think that perhaps she didn’t leave of her own accord? 
She wasn’t coerced?” 

“Only by her own desires, old man!” Lucian laid 
his hand affectionately on his chief’s shoulder. “This 
hits all of us pretty hard but—remember that toy 
dog and the fresh corsage bouquets every day? 
Ethel’s only a woman and when it’s a question of her 
work or the man—well, what could you have ex¬ 
pected? It isn’t like her, somehow, but Ethel has 
deserted under fire!” 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE GIRL ON THE STAIRS 

C LIFFORD NICHOLS, Rex Powell and Henry 
Corliss met at two, and the varying aspects of 
the investigation paled into insignificance before 
the fact of Ethel’s disappearance. 

Rex was still deeply troubled and Henry openly 
disconsolate, but Cliff himself accepted the news quietly 
with a silence that was almost defensive. 

“Lucian thinks Ethel has a—a sentimental affair 
on her mind,” Rex observed. “It is ridiculous, of 
course, but then he cites the Pekingese, which she ad¬ 
mitted was a gift, and the flowers she wears. I can’t 
believe it possible—that child!” 

“You mean she thinks her young man would be dis¬ 
gusted if he found out what kind of work she was do¬ 
ing?” Henry Corliss shook his head dolefully. 
“That’s not Ethel! Maybe she’s hurt because Cliff 
hasn’t let her get in on the investigation?” 

Cliff Nichol’s face was a study at this suggestion 
but he remarked noncommittally: 

“Personally, I don’t believe either of you is right, 
but I really feel we ought to find her, just to assure 
ourselves that she isn’t doing anything foolish. I 
don’t mean getting engaged, that is her own affair if 
she is contemplating it, but we can never tell what 
236 


237 


The Girl on the Stairs 

she is going to do next. Rex, we don’t need any more 
data on Monckton, and Talbot Gorham’s widow, who 
is chaperoning Ethel, knows only that she is the pri¬ 
vate secretary of ‘Mr. Powell.’ You read this note 
first, and you see Ethel says she has told her she is 
going away on business for you. If under another 
name you could manage to meet Mrs. Gorham and 
some of the set Ethel is traveling with through her, 
we may find out where the child is; she might have 
dropped a hint to some one of them as to her plans. 
This has nothing to do with our work, of course, but 
it is still more important.” 

“It is,” Rex Powell commented with a certain grim¬ 
ness. “She has asked us not to go to Mrs. Gorham; 
that is the one reason why I think it is through that 
lady we may unearth some clew to her disappearance, 
for it amounts to that. I—I couldn’t work with any 
degree of concentration till I knew all was well with 
her.” 

“All right, then; cut along, Rex, and if you ring 
here and no one answers come yourself and leave a 
note.” Cliff turned to Henry. “Did you go to Judge 
Francis and Dr. Kibbe and Waldron Ingram?” 

“Yes. I went to the Judge first. He’s a fine old 
white-haired fellow of the old school with a pretty 
keen mind and he got like a shot what I wanted, but 
when he summoned his valet, that Isaac, I knew I 
couldn’t get any dope from him about the servants at 
the Manor. Isaac is as old as Noah, and his kinky 
hair’s as white, too. He’s been with the Judge for 


238 The Handwriting on the Wall 

nearly fifty years and all he could tell me was that the 
help employed at the Manor all ‘treated him fine/ and 
it seemed like they were all the kind that ‘quality folks’ 
would want around them.” Henry paused, clasping 
his hands about his rotund knees. “The next one I 
struck was Dr. Kibbe. His chauffeur, Paolo Galli, had 
the car just outside, and he’s a smooth article. I got 
it from him finally that there is one maid in that 
household who is mighty attractive, and had ’phone 
calls and occasional visitors who would bear watching. 
It may be a case of sour grapes, but I got her name 
anyway—Lucie Regnier. 

“Then I saw Ingram, the president of the Citizens 
and Aliens Bank. He wasn’t so easy to handle; didn’t 
want himself or his servants mixed up in the case, but 
when I showed him it was a choice of us or the police, 
he produced his valet. Hugh Brinsley. Nothing much 
doing, though—except that Brinsley got from de 
Puyster Monckton’s own valet, old Jim Ricks, that 
Mr. Monckton was grieving himself to death about 
his son. For the love of Pete, Cliff, give me a new 
line! I’m no cross-examiner!” 

“All right!” Cliff Nichols bent toward his stout 
confrere. “This is rather more in your line. The 
valet you just spoke of, Jim Ricks, had what was de¬ 
scribed to me as a ‘sort of fit’ late Friday afternoon 
at the house where the murder took place and was 
taken to the hospital; find out if he’s able to talk and 
get all the little intimate details you can from him 
about the old gentleman’s manner during the past 


The Girl on the Stairs 


239 


few months. He doesn’t like Richard and he’s al¬ 
most fanatically loyal to the memory of the father, 
but you may get some information that you can look 
at in an unprejudiced way.” 

“‘Unprejudiced!’ Huh!” Henry snorted. “You 
make me just naturally tired, Cliff! Just because of 
that handwriting, you’re still—Gosh A’mighty! Look 
at Phil!” 

The youngest member of The Shadowers sauntered 
in with a fair assumption of his old debonair manner, 
but it was slightly marred by the deep circles under 
his eyes and the drawn look of pain about his mouth. 

“Hello, you two!” Phil Howe sank into a chair, 
pulling his cuffs down carefully over his wrists. 
“Where’s Rex? I’ve been in touch with both George 
and Luce, and I got the order to report here as quick 
as I could. What happened to Ethel?” 

“You’ve heard, then?” Cliff handed over her note. 
“We’re going to trace her this time, but tell us what 
has happened to you? You look rather as though 
you’d been through the mill!” 

“I’ll say I have!” Phil’s eyes twinkled. “I’m not 
the only one! I have a message for you from George 
about the man ‘Radwick.’ ” 

Starting with that unexpected meeting in the grounds 
of the Manor on the previous night, Phil told of 
Wick’s disclosure as to his own identity and that of 
the maid, and Henry sat back with a grunt of half- 
incredulous belief. 

“Lucy Regner! That’s the woman Galli talked 


240 The Handwriting on the Wall 

about—said she’d be worth watching. I never ran 
into the Dobson gang, guess they didn’t operate in 
the middle west. Where’s the Regner woman now?” 

Phil reddened. 

“Well, I suppose if I don’t tell you Lucian will!” 
He gave them an account of his morning’s adventure 
and Henry chuckled with huge enjoyment, but Cliff 
remarked very seriously: 

“You must find her again and don’t lose her trail 
day or night! She called up a number beginning with 
609—?” 

“Yes, but when I taxed her with calling 6099 she 
laughed at me as if she was relieved; it would be a 
funny coincidence if she hadn’t been asking for that 
number after all, wouldn’t it?” 

Cliff Nichols discreetly ignored the question but 
asked one in his turn. 

“Have you any idea how you can pick her up 
again?” 

“Yes, if she’s still trailing with what’s left of the 
old gang. I think I know where I can find one or 
two of them and I’ll be in right, for they’ll retnember 
a few tricks I turned and accept me as one of them. 
You can bet I won’t rest till I’ve evened the score with 
Lucy! Coming, Henry?” 

The two had been gone more than an hour when 
George appeared, and he was closely followed by Lu¬ 
cian Baynes who listened attentively with Cliff to fur¬ 
ther details of the encounter with Radway Wicks. 

“He isn’t associated with Lucy, that’s clear,” 


241 


The Girl on the Stairs 

George finished. “The meeting was a surprise to both 
of them, and though she remembered him as the man 
who called three times last summer, according to Phil, 
I don’t think she knew who he was. Now, if he was 
employed by Monckton to watch his son, he certainly 
couldn’t have been instrumental in bringing him to the 
verge of ruin, and why did he go sneaking up to the 
Manor as soon as he thought he had lost me?” 

“I don’t know.” Cliff shook his head. “He’s got 
a pretty big name and his agency is one of the best. 
He would have sent one of his operatives to shadow 
Richard unless there was more important work con¬ 
nected with it than that alone. Perhaps we can 
get him to tell us. Did he reappear to-day at the 
Manor?” 

“No. A man answering his description took the 
early train from the Pocantico Hills station and when 
I reached the city I called him up at his office. He’s 
there, all right, and I have an appointment to see him 
in an hour. If he tries to hedge I’ll put it up to him 
straight. He couldn’t afford to have the press get 
wind of that nocturnal visit of his.” George Roper 
paused and added reflectively: “What do you suppose 
Lucy Regner’s game was?” 

“I don’t think there can be any doubt about that.” 
Cliff smiled slightly. “There were no women in the 
Monckton family with jewels that would have at¬ 
tracted Lucy’s crowd, but many of the house guests 
last summer and this spring had a lot of valuables, and 
I know of three robberies in the last month alone. 


242 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Judge Abner Francis lost a rich collection of stick¬ 
pins; Dr. Kibbe, a set of studs and waistcoat buttons 
worth over five thousand, and Mrs. Waldron Ingram, 
a diamond necklace that has been famous for more 
than two generations. Lucy is still in the old game 
but playing it safe, for none of the thefts took place 
at the Manor but while the victims were traveling 
about. Phil is hot on the woman’s trail now. I won’t 
be here to-night, George, but leave a report here for 
me on your conference with Wicks.” 

George left them and Lucian Baynes rose also. 

“I looked in because you wanted me to, old man, 
but there’s nothing more of any importance. I have 
a new little playmate, about as perfect a young rot¬ 
ter as I’ve ever met. His name is Chester Norcross 
and I’m dining to-morrow night with him and his sis¬ 
ter. Will I find you here to-morrow if anything turns 
up in the meantime?” 

“I’m not sure,” Cliff responded. “I’m off on a 
little investigation of my own and you couldn’t reach 
me, for I don’t know myself where I’m likely to be.” 

He had told none of his colleagues of the discovery 
of the right number, and now he locked the office and 
started uptown. He left the subway at the One Hun¬ 
dred and Tenth Street station and walked westward to 
Number 840, a modest, old fashioned brick building, 
set between two more pretentious modern ones, on a 
block that had evidently been given over to cheap 
flats in the days when bells and mail boxes for each 
tenant were installed in the vestibules. 


The Girl on the Stairs 


243 


Glancing at the row on the left, he saw two letters 
in the third box and took them out. One was ad¬ 
dressed to Charles Curran and the other to Mrs. 
Lena Farley, and placing them in his pocket he pressed 
the bell numbered “four” in the opposite row. 

The door clicked and he passed into the dim, nar¬ 
row hallway and up one flight of the clean but shab¬ 
bily carpeted stairs. A stout, smiling-faced Irish¬ 
woman stood waiting for him in the opened door of 
the front flat and said cordially: 

“Good-afternoon to you, Mr. Nixon! Your room’s 
ready for you and here’s a key. I put your bag 
on the bed and a letter’s come for you.” 

“Thanks, I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.” Cliff 
took the letter which he had mailed to himself as cor¬ 
roborative evidence of his identity and passed into the 
small hallroom just by the door that he had engaged 
that morning. He turned the key in the lock behind 
him and took out the letters he had abstracted below. 
The one addressed to “Mrs. Farley” was in an illit¬ 
erate feminine hand with a blot or two and a smear of 
dirt where the flap was sealed. He broke it open and 
read: 

Deer Lena: 

Bill and me will be arond Sundy eve. like you asked us. 
Has Charlie been sick? I seen him yesterdy and I thought 
he looked awful bad. Tell Bessie I’m bringing her a new 
dress I maid for the dol Joe give her. No more now. 

Your loveing friend, 


Jen. 


244 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Mrs. Farley would learn that evening that her 
letter had gone astray, Cliff reflected. Would that 
make her suspicious of espionage? The family in the 
third floor rear had already taken alarm at the tele¬ 
phone call innocently answered by the child, Bessie. 
Would they look askance at their neighbor’s new 
lodger? It couldn’t be helped, now, for he couldn’t 
reseal the torn envelope, but he moistened the flap 
of the second letter and then carefully rolled it back 
with a pencil. He read in a labored masculine hand: 

Hello, Charlie. Got your number o. k. but A1 slipped me the 
word to lay off it. What’s up? I got a hunch I know and 
if it’s straight we’d both better hop a rattler for the sticks. 
Meet me late to-night at the old place and give me the dope. 

Lefty. 

So the alarm had gone out. “Al” and “Lefty” 
must be two of the pals whom the little girl said were 
always calling her uncle. Cliff meant to get a look 
at “Bill” and “Jen” when they arrived, and to follow 
Charlie later if he went to keep that appointment. 

He sealed the letter again and going downstairs 
dropped it into the box from which he had taken it, 
and then went to a little restaurant around the cor¬ 
ner for a hasty bite of dinner. One significant fact 
had been gleamed from the first letter; Charlie 
“looked awful bad” the day before, so bad that his 
friend wondered if he had been ill. There would be 
small need to wonder, if he were worrying about the 


The Girl on the Stairs 245 

telephone call and the fear of being drawn into 
trouble! 

The letter from Lefty had been unmistakable. He 
was suspicious of the truth but not certain, and he 
was prepared to fly from the city. Clearly neither he, 
Bill, nor Al, had been the one for whose call Charlie 
had waited vainly on that fateful Thursday night. 
There was “Joe” too; surely among so many Cliff 
would be able to obtain a clew to the man who had 
written that number on the wall! 

At a little after eight that evening he heard foot¬ 
steps on the stairs and a woman’s high-pitched, rather 
coarse laughter. He had left the entrance door of 
the apartment open an inch or two and now he went 
to it with his hat in his hand as though prepared to 
go out again. 

The door at the opposite end of the hall opened, 
too, and he caught a glimpse of a thin, rather care¬ 
worn looking woman of perhaps thirty with hollow, 
deeply circled eyes in a pale, gaunt face. Behind her, 
for an instant, a man appeared; he was younger, and 
in his shirt sleeves his shoulders loomed very broad. 
That was all Cliff could make out, for he stepped 
back quickly as a dumpy, plump little woman in a 
flaring, feathered hat mounted the stairs in company 
with a sallow-faced youth in a loud-checked suit and 
bright, squeaky, yellow shoes. 

They were greeted by the thin, weary-eyed hostess 
and the door closed behind them, but not before Cliff 


246 The Handwriting on the Wall 

heard a pleased little cry in a childish voice—the same 
clear treble that had replied to him over the ’phone. 

He watched but no one else came and a little past 
midnight the visiting couple departed, taking with 
them the broad-shouldered young man. Could this be 
indeed Charlie, and was he going to keep that appoint¬ 
ment Lefty had made ? The letter had been gone from 
the box when Cliff returned after dining, and now he 
tiptoed from the flat, closing the door noiselessly be¬ 
hind him, and followed the trio downstairs. He had 
provided himself with cheap, ready-made clothes, with 
the creases partially removed and dust rubbed into the 
cloth here and there, in keeping with the role of ship¬ 
ping clerk adopted for the benefit of his new landlady. 
The blue serge suit and rather dilapidated gray felt 
hat were inconspicuous enough to take away much of 
the distinction of his appearance; his mustache had 
been clipped, the goatee shaved ruthlessly away, and 
his hair cut short and plastered down. Looking like 
a down-at-heel, but eminently respectable white collar 
man of early middle age, he let himself quietly out and 
walked several yards behind his quarry to the corner. 

Here they separated, the couple boarding a surface 
car, and the young man proceeding on across town. 
Cliff trailed him, keeping just behind his solitary figure 
on the other side of the street; he went straight down 
the steeply sloping hill at a swinging, unhurried pace, 
but at the bottom he turned and it seemed to Cliff that 
his gait grew uneven and his bearing furtive. Down 
one street and up another, sometimes completely 


247 


The Girl on the Stairs 

circling a block, he moved at a constantly increasing 
pace and it was borne in upon Cliff that he was sus¬ 
picious of espionage if not actually sure of it, and 
was trying to throw a possible pursuer off the track. 

For more than an hour he dodged about, sometimes 
looking hastily over his shoulder, but if he saw that 
slim figure loitering aimlessly in his wake he gave 
no sign of it, and at last turned into the side door 
of an apparently empty saloon. A light shone from 
it for an instant, however, and Cliff hesitated a moment 
and then opened the door himself and entered a small 
room fitted with little round tables, at several of 
which groups of men were seated drinking and talk¬ 
ing together in orderly, low tones; their sharp faces— 
one or two with the prison pallor which Cliff recog¬ 
nized and many with the sallow skin and leaden, con¬ 
tracted eyes of the dope fiend—expressing no hilarity 
but rather stern business. 

The broad-shouldered young man sat down alone, 
but he was almost instantly joined by a hard-featured 
man about five years his senior who greeted him with 
an anxious, questioning air and drew a chair up close. 

Cliff took his place alone at a table near by, and 
the bartender eyed him warily but nodded with a 
grunt of reassurance when Cliff addressed him confi¬ 
dentially. 

“I’m waiting here for Kelly. Know him, don’t you? 
Bring me a small beer and if he comes in the front way 
tell him Cliff’s here, will you?” 

“I only know Black Kelly, and he’s been and gone, 


248 The Handwriting on the Wall 

but maybe he’ll come back again if he’s got a date with 
you,” the bartender answered. “Dark or light?” 

“Light.” Cliff settled back in his chair and tried 
to listen to the conversation going on at the next table, 
but only snatches of it reached his ears. Once the 
latest comer uttered a sharp, smothered ejaculation 
and brought his fist down on his knee, clenched con¬ 
vulsively. Then he swore under his breath and added: 

“So I hit it! The damn fool, why did he chance 
it? I tell you, Charlie, it’s a good thing they’re on 
the wrong steer but we’d better make ourselves scarce 
for a while!” 

“Not a chance, Lefty. You can beat it if you want 
to but I’ve got to stick around. My sister’s kid . . 

The rest was lost as Charlie lowered his tones cau¬ 
tiously. But at a further murmured remark Cliff was 
aware that the man called “Lefty” turned with elabo¬ 
rate casualness and stared at him shrewdly, and then 
there came one word of a phrase which caused Cliff 
himself to stiffen in his chair. That word was “Shad- 
owers!” 

Lefty rose in a few minutes and went out abruptly, 
and Charlie was preparing to follow, as Cliff spilled 
part of the contents of his glass in the cuspidor beside 
him and sipped with fastidious repugnance at the re¬ 
mainder, when the bartender reentered, followed by 
a stout, florid-faced man who hurried to Charlie’s 
side and bent over him. 

“Here that night . . . sure you were, you’re all 
right, but he . . . Told me what he said to you . . . 


249 


The Girl on the Stairs 

Yeah, all to pieces, and hitting the snow again . . . 
Not on your life, I couldn’t take a chance . . . Sure 
I wouldn’t go back on him but I shipped him out to 
the old woman’s . . . hell of a break, if he don’t pull 
himself together—!” 

Charlie replied in an indistinguishable undertone 
and clapping the florid man on his stout shoulder he 
went out, while Cliff finished his beer, paid the bar¬ 
tender, leaving a message for the fictitious “Kelly,” 
and followed. Charlie could not, after all, have been 
aware of his interest, for he went straight across 
town to the apartment house again without once look¬ 
ing back. 

Cliff loitered in the vestibule for a good ten minutes, 
then softly opened the door with his key. He had 
started up the stairs when the sight of a figure crouched 
just below the topmost step made him pause. 

It was that of a woman, evidently youthful from 
her petite slenderness and dressed in a straight gown 
of some dark, soft material that made no slightest 
rustle as she sprang up and started forward after one 
startled look at him, but Cliff had leaped forward and 
caught her by the arm. 

“I thought so!” he exclaimed in a low but stern 
tone. “I might have known you’d try something like 
this, Ethel! What are you doing here?” 


CHAPTER XX 


BESSIE 

“T—I’VE got a room on the next floor with Mrs. 

1 Franck,” Ethel explained in a whisper, as she 
hung her head. “I know you said you wouldn’t 
let me help you here, Mr. Nichols, but that was only 
because you were afraid maybe I couldn’t take care of 
myself and they might hurt me. I just couldn’t help 
disobeying you, and you’d told me to pretend to leave, 
yourself. Oh, please don’t send me away! I know 
I can help you in the one way you couldn’t even try. 
Please!” 

Her earnestness was compelling and Cliff found his 
anger dissipated. 

“Well,” he responded in a softened tone, “I guess 
you’re safe enough for to-night, but go straight back 
to your room and stay there, do you understand? 
Don’t come out again no matter what you may hear, 
and meet me at eight o’clock in the morning around the 
corner in a small restaurant you’ll find there. I’ll de¬ 
cide meantime what to do with you—we can’t talk 
here! What ‘way’ do you mean that you can help?” 

“Through the little girl—Bessie!” Ethel Jepson de¬ 
clared. “I knew even when we talked to her over 
the ’phone the other night that she’d be the one to 
approach, and a woman could get her confidence better 
250 


Bessie 


251 


than a man. She goes with Mrs. Franck’s little boy 
over to the park to play every morning, and I always 
could get on with kiddies. It may take a few days, 
but when once I have gained her confidence I know I 
can get something from her, about that man who was 
to call up her uncle Thursday night and didn’t, even 
if she was told not to dare to speak of it! I’ll meet 
you in the restaurant to-morrow at six instead if 
you’ll let me; by that time I ought to have something 
to tell you.” 

Cliff Nichols wavered but finally gave his reluctant 
consent, and watched while she crept back to the rear 
apartment on the next floor. 

She was right, of course. The child’s knowledge 
of her uncle’s affairs and those of his friends might be 
limited, especially if he were connected with a gang 
of crooks, but she evidently knew enough to make her 
dangerous or she would not have been cautioned not 
to speak, and unknowingly she might give Ethel a 
valuable clew. 

Cliff shuddered at the thought of their young sec¬ 
retary’s possible danger, but he should have known 
her better than to think she would sit by passively 
while the mystery remained unsolved, and at least he 
was at hand to protect her in any sudden emergency. 

The wide-open saloon he had followed Charlie to 
was a resort for denizens of the underworld, that was 
patent. The weak, furtive faces of its patrons were 
unmistakable, with thievery and every sort of petty 
crime written all over them, and Charlie was tarred 


252 The Handwriting on the Wall 

with the same brush. If the thin, hard-worked little 
woman who had opened the door to her guests was 
his sister and the mother of the little girl, she was 
plainly not of a criminal type; but the look of covert ap¬ 
prehension which seemed habitual to her denoted that 
she knew of her brother’s mode of life and feared for 
him. He had been warned and she would be hope¬ 
lessly reticent; only the child remained. 

In the morning he left early as though to go to 
work, but took up his stand at the nearest entrance 
to the small park that clung to the bottom of the steep 
cliff, crowned with the huge cathedral. Soon children, 
alone or in groups, came straggling in to play, and then 
young mothers appeared with shabby baby carriages 
and go-carts. Cliff watched and waited patiently and 
at last a small tow-headed boy approached accom¬ 
panied by a gentle-faced little girl a few feet taller 
than he. She was neatly dressed and shining from 
soap and water, with her brown hair in two thin, de¬ 
corous little braids looped behind each ear, and she 
lugged a huge doll arrayed in an obviously new and 
gorgeous gown of bright blue silk. 

Cliff recalled the dress which “Jen” had made for 
the doll “Joe” had given to Bessie. At the same 
moment Ethel Jepson came strolling along with a book 
and a small sewing bag, and, giving him a glance with¬ 
out the slightest shade of recognition in it, she en¬ 
tered the park and seated herself on a bench near 
where the two children were playing, somewhat osten- 


Bessie 253 

tatiously producing a box of chocolates from her bag. 

Cliff waited then only long enough to see the boy 
run to her, beckoning to his companion, and then he 
returned to the house, leaving the apartment door ajar 
as before. 

He explained to the landlady that he felt ill and 
had decided to lay off for the day, and patiently sub¬ 
mitted to being dosed and coddled by the good-na¬ 
tured woman; but he sighed with relief when she de¬ 
parted to market, and settled himself for a long vigil. 

It was one unproductive of result, for the door of 
the opposite flat remained closed and no one came to 
it. If Charlie had not gone out while Cliff was watch¬ 
ing the park entrance he must have decided to lay 
low and his sister with him, for there was no sign of 
either of them all day. 

The little girl returned at noon, going out again at 
three to reappear when the sun got low; but nothing 
else occurred and at six Cliff left for the restaurant, 
where he found Ethel awaiting him. 

“Where have you been since morning?” he de¬ 
manded. “I’ve been watching all day and you didn’t 
come back from the park!” 

“No, I didn’t!” she dimpled. “I thought I had 
better not hang around the house too much, especially 
when there wasn’t any use in it, since I couldn t see any 
more of Bessie. We’re getting along nicely and I 
don’t think it’ll take very long to get out of her all she 
knows.” 


254 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“What have you learned so far?” Cliff asked, when 
their order had been taken. “She looks like a shy 
little thing.” 

“She is, but Johnny Franck knew me, of course, and 
so she took me on faith and the candy helped to break 
the ice. If they’re not both sick from it to-morrow 
I’m going to show her how to fold and cut a new kind 
of paper doll. That won’t amuse Johnny and he’ll 
run off and play by himself when he sees there isn’t 
more candy, so I’ll have a better chance to talk to her. 
I didn’t want to ask her too many questions at first, 
for she’s warned not to talk to strangers, but she’ll 
forget after a while.” Ethel paused to spear an oyster 
daintily and then went on: “A friend of her mother 
made that dress for the doll she was carrying and 
brought it to her last night. Did you see her?” 

Cliff nodded. 

“Yes. She came with a man who looked like a 
typical young tough.” 

“He’s a short change artist with a carnival!” Ethel 
laughed. “You would have died at the simple way 
the kiddie gave it away without dreaming what she 
was talking about. The doll was given to her by 
‘Joe,’ whoever he is, and she seemed awfully fond 
of him, but I only gathered that he was a pal of her 
uncle. She mentioned an ‘Al,’ too, and somebody 
called ‘Lefty.’ ” 

“I’ve heard of them both, and seen them, too, for 
I followed Charlie to a speak-easy late last night and 
he held a conference with some one he called Lefty, 


Bessie 255 

and then a red-faced man talked to him, who was the 
proprietor of the place, I think, and though Charlie 
replied very low, I believe I heard him call the other 
‘Al.’ ” Cliff told her of the letters he had opened and 
the snatches of conversation in the saloon, and when 
he had finished he asked: “Was that all Bessie told 
you?” 

“No. She’s staying home from school this week 
because she’s just getting over the mumps; her mother 
just sold out a little fancy store she had around on the 
Avenue and that’s why they’ve had a ’phone put in 
the flat. They used to use the one in the store, I 
guess; it would have been better for her uncle, if he’s 
carrying on any crooked business.” Ethel sat back 
while the soup was substituted for the oyster plates and 
then continued: “I asked her what her mother was 
going to do now and she said she didn’t know, but she 
herself was going to be sent away to school next year 
and only come home for the holidays. She chattered 
a lot about somebody named ‘Annie’ who was ‘awful 
pretty and stylish and crazy about seeing the horses 
run’; she’d won quite a lot of money on them, too, and 
Bessie’s Uncle Charlie was just wild about her. 

“There isn’t a more superstitious woman in the 
world than the one that follows the races, Mr. Nichols, 
and I got ‘Annie’s’ last name and her address from 
Bessie and went around to see her in the afternoon.” 

Cliff stared. 

“What excuse did you make, and what does her 
being superstitious have to do with it?” 


256 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Everything, for I brought a pretty well soiled pack 
of cards with me and told her I was a fortune teller 
that Mrs. Farley had sent to her.” Ethel laughed 
again. “She’s a big, frowsy-looking blonde, but very 
pretty, with a lot of small-stoned rings, and she fell 
for my game like a baby. I made two dollars, but it 
was worth it, for I’d looked up the dope-sheet in the 
paper first and honestly, I picked the winner for her 
to-day! What do you think of that? I shouldn’t 
wonder if you’d see her pretty soon, for I told her a 
dark young man was mad about her, and that some¬ 
thing had happened that was going to get him into a 
terrible lot of trouble; something connected with a 
message he’d expected but didn’t get, and that he was 
frightened to death about it right now.” 

“You didn’t go too far?” Cliff asked anxiously. 
“We don’t want to frighten him any more than he is 
now!” 

“No. She’ll find out, of course, that Bessie’s mother 
never heard of me, but that won’t matter as long as 
she doesn’t catch sight of me and I’ll take good care 
of that,” Ethel exclaimed, as she cut the juicy filet 
mignon before her. “This girl, Annie Leonard, was 
scared herself when I told her, but I saw that it didn’t 
surprise her and she honestly believed I read it in 
the cards! I moved them around a little, the way Mr. 
Roper has showed me at odd times, and I made the 
death car come out right next to the jacks of clubs and 
hearts, meaning Uncle Charlie and the man who was 
to have telephoned to him and didn’t, and she gave a 


Bessie 


257 


little scream. She grew so white I thought she was 
going to faint and then she cried: ‘He didn’t have 
anything to do with it! Oh, I’ve been afraid of this! 
My Gawd, if it all comes out!’ Then she remembered 
herself and stopped, and I told her a few nice things 
to sort of take the curse off and then quit. She asked 
me to come again in a few days but I’d got all I could 
out of her. She knows about the murder and that 
Charlie is mixed up in it some way but I couldn’t get 
her to mention the name of the other man. Look 
here, Mr. Nichols, Bessie may tell me something to¬ 
morrow in the park that you ought to hear. If you 
aren’t going to be busy, why don’t you take a news¬ 
paper and hang around, and if you see me talking to 
her and I should happen to drop my scissors you could 
pick them up for me and I’d recognize you. She 
might be shy again and shut up like a little clam, but 
you could suggest taking us for a little ride, or some¬ 
thing, and I’d get her going again. What do you think 
of it?” 

“I think it’s a sensible plan,” Cliff approved. “I’ll 
be there early.” 

He was as good as his word, and apparently deep 
in the morning’s news when the little girl appeared, 
alone this time. She had a large paper pad instead 
of the doll and looked about eagerly before seating 
herself on the bench opposite, spreading out her small 
skirts primly and turning out her round little sandaled 
toes. 

Her face was not overintelligent but very sweet, 


258 The Handwriting on the Wall 

with calm, steady eyes and a sensitive mouth, and her 
pensive gaze was fastened on the gate, till at last 
she jumped up with a pleased little cry. Ethel was 
entering with her work bag on her arm. 

“Hello, Mith Jefferthon!” the clear voice piped. “I 
brought my pad with me ! You didn’t forget?” 

“About the paper dolls?” Ethel laughed with a 
childish note in her own tones. “No, and I have a 
great big pair of scissors. See them?” 

She seated herself beside the little girl and held up 
a huge pair of shears in meaning reminder to Cliff 
Nichols. 

“You cut them in a row?” Bessie sat down again, 
too, and watched absorbedly, while Ethel folded and 
cut, and finally evolved a series of rather acrobatic 
looking dolls, holding each other by the hand. The 
child was delighted and appeared to be chattering 
gayly, but her small voice, now that it was no longer 
raised in excitement, failed to carry to Cliff’s ears. 

He could tell by watching her expression and that 
of Ethel, as she put an apparently innocent question 
or two, that the dolls had ceased to be the subject of 
the conversation and at last, to his relief, the scissors 
suddenly fell ringing on to the pavement. 

Bessie slipped down politely but Cliff was before 
her and, retrieving the scissors, he presented them, 
hat in hand. Then he paused in ostensibly pleased 
surprise. 

“Thank you—why, Mr. Smith!” Ethel exclaimed. 
“To think of its being you! This is a gentleman I 


Bessie 259 

used to work for, Bessie. He has a toy store all filled 
with the loveliest things and maybe he’ll show them 
to you some time. Would you like to sit down with 
us, Mr. Smith? I wish we had one of your paint¬ 
boxes to give our dollies nice pink cheeks and blue 
eyes!” 

“You shall have one!” Cliff promised, as he seated 
himself. “I’ll be glad to send it to your little friend 
if you’ll give me her address.” 

He turned to the child who was blushing with em¬ 
barrassment and joy. 

“Why, she lives in the same house I do, but I don’t 
know what apartment; tell Mr. Smith, Bessie. 

The child complied shyly and Cliff gravely made a 
note of it, then Ethel added: 

“Bessie’s got a big doll, Mr. Smith, nicer almost 
than any in your store, and it was given to her by her 
Uncle Joe.” 

“No, he isn’t my uncle,” Bessie disclaimed politely. 
“My uncle’s Uncle Charlie, but Joe’s a friend of his.” 

“He must be a friend of yours, too,” Cliff remarked 
with a smile. 

“Yeth, thir, he ith!” she lisped, as she had over the 
telephone, but the impediment became less noticeable 
as she gained in confidence. “He used to play with 
me, and my mother laughed because he’s so big and 
has arms like that!” She stretched her own small 
arms out to their widest extent, but her serene face 
clouded as she dropped them to her sides once more. 
“I’m going to miss him an awful lot.” 


260 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Has he gone away?” Cliff made the question 
sound as indifferent as he could. 

“Uncle Charlie says he’s going, and we won’t even 
see him to say good-by!” Her lips trembled slightly. 
“I haven’t seen him in ever so long but he was coming 
last week, only he didn’t. Oh, I forgot!” 

She stopped, flushing still deeper with embarrass¬ 
ment, but Ethel laughed lightly. 

“That’s funny! Didn’t you have a friend when I 
worked for you named Joe, Mr. Smith? Seems to me 
I remember his calling you up a lot.” 

“Yes, of course!” Cliff played up to her lead. 
“What is your friend’s name, Bessie? Maybe it’s the 
same!” 

But the child shook her smooth, brown head. 

“No, thir. My Joe didn’t know anybody that had 
a toy store. I—I ought to go home, my mamma will 
be looking for me.” 

She started to wriggle down off the seat once more, 
but Cliff had a sudden inspiration. 

“I wish I knew a place around here where we could 
get some nice ice cream cones!” He turned to Ethel. 
“You’d like one, wouldn’t you?” 

She nodded and Bessie cried: 

“Oh, I know! I know a place right across the 
street!” 

“Then would you like to run over and get some for 
all of us?” Cliff placed some coins in her small palm. 
“Get as many as you can carry.” 

“My mamma mightn’t want me to—for myself, I 


Bessie 261 

mean.” She hesitated, and then her face cleared. 
“The doctor let me have some last week, though, 
when my face was all mumped out! I’ll be right 
back!” 

She sped away and Cliff asked reflectively: 

“Do you suppose she will?” 

“Of course!” Ethel replied with conviction. “She’s 
an honest little thing, and the ice-cream will loosen her 
tongue. Keep on talking about Joe and try to make 
her think you really know him. If she tells her mother 
about this talk, she won’t be allowed to play here any 
more, of course; so this is our last chance.” 

Bessie flew back, a large paper bag of cones bal¬ 
anced carefully between her hands, and sighed with 
enjoyment when Cliff opened it and handed one to her. 

“Oh, it’s good! Joe used to take me there to buy 
them!” Unconsciously she renewed the subject and 
Cliff was quick to take advantage of it. 

“I didn’t always have a toy store, and maybe I do 
know Joe, after all, and your uncle. His name isn’t 
Charlie Curran, is it?” 

“Oh, yes!” Bessie clapped her hands. “And Joe’s 
is ‘Geiger’ !” 

“That’s the fellow! I haven’t seen him in a long 
while,” Cliff exclaimed with a hearty assumption of 
pleasure. “He used to have a lot of jewelry and silver 
and stuff to sell; that’s how I met him, I bought a lot 
of it. Did you ever know Mrs. Regner? She’s a 
friend of Joe’s and your uncle’s, too.” 

“No, sir!” Bessie shook her head again. “But 


262 The Handwriting on the Wall 

that’s my Joe ! He has awful pretty things sometimes, 
he showed them to my mamma and me—rings and 
bracelets and things.” 

“Where is he now, do you know?” Cliff pursued. 
“I’d like to see him and maybe I could do some busi¬ 
ness with him on the side before he goes away. Where 
did you say he was going?” 

“I don’t know.” The childish voice held a sorry 
note once more. “I never did know where he lived 
but he used to be at Al’s a lot. Do you know Al?” 

“Yes, he has a cafe, hasn’t he?” Cliff paused and at 
her nod went on carefully. “Maybe Charlie will see 
him ?” 

“No, he won’t. He ’phoned to Uncle Charlie at 
Al’s one night last week, and Uncle Charlie gave him 
mamma’s new number and asked him to call up home in 
an hour, but he didn’t. Uncle Charlie didn’t seem to 
think very much about it that night, but he was still 
waiting up when I went to sleep, and in the morning 
he was awful worried! He took mamma in the 
kitchen and talked an awful long while; and when 
they came out they told me I wasn’t to say anything 
about Joe to anybody, not even let on that we knew 
him or ever expected him to call us up, but of course 
it’s all right when you’re a friend of his! If you see 
him I wish you’d tell him how I miss him!” 

“I shall.” Cliff dared not glance at Ethel but he 
felt rather than heard her quickened, tremulous breath¬ 
ing. He staked everything on a final question. “Do 


Bessie 263 

you know where Al’s mother lives? He calls her ‘the 
old woman.’ ” 

“That isn’t his mother!” Bessie giggled. “That’s 
his sister. She takes a lot of his friends to board, 
over at her house at Brookfield! If you see Joe, tell 
him I think he is mean to go away without saying 
good-by!” 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE MIDNIGHT WARNING 

W HEN little Bessie, surfeited with ice cream 
cones and clutching a regiment of paper 
dolls, had run homeward, Ethel Jepson 
turned to her partner on the park bench with shining 

eyes. 

“Oh, Mr. Nichols, we’ve got him! It was Joe 
Geiger killed old Mr. Monckton! He ’phoned Charlie 
Curran from the very house and wrote down on the 
wall the number Charlie gave him!” 

“It looks like it!” Cliff replied. “How much lug¬ 
gage have you got at Mrs. Franck’s?” 

“Only two bags with just plain things like this.” 
Ethel glanced down at her simple little black suit with 
the cheap fur scarf. “She thinks I’m a stenog. out of 
a job.” 

“Well, you’re going to obey orders this time, young 
lady!” Cliff Nichols’ mouth was set in an unusually 
firm line. “Don’t go back there on any account! The 
child has told her mother by now and possibly her 
uncle, if he’s at home as I think he is. They’ll see 
through the plant at once and know she’s been trapped, 
and they won’t hesitate at anything to put us both out 
of the way. I didn’t mean to tell you, but already one 
264 


The Midnight Warning 265 

of the boys has been drugged and another one gagged 
and bound at the point of a gun in broad day, so you 
can see what might happen to either of us, and I will 
not have you run any further risk!” 

Goodness!” Ethel’s eyes danced. “I’ve missed 
all that! It—it wasn’t Mr. Powell that any of that 
happened to?” 

The question came with a sudden catch in her breath 
and a note of apprehension that Cliff had never heard 
in her indomitable young voice before, and he glanced 
at her in swift surprise. 

“No, it was Mr. Roper and Mr. Howe. But I 
must have absolute obedience in this, Ethel! You’ve 
paid for your room in advance?” 

“Of course, from Saturday night, when I took it.” 

“So you were here ahead of me?” He smiled in 
spite of himself. “Write a little note telling Mrs. 
Franck you’ve got a position to leave the city at once, 
and send it by messenger from the office, with instruc¬ 
tions to get your things. Tell him to check them at 
the Grand Central and we’ll send for them later. 
Then stay in the office, do you understand, my dear? 
When Mr. Powell comes in tell him I want him to es¬ 
cort you home personally every night and call for 
you in the morning until he hears from me. There 
mustn’t be any mistake about that!” 

“I’ve taken care of myself since I could walk, but 
of course I’ll do as you say,” Ethel murmured docilely. 
“I’d hate to have Mr. Powell think I was afraid, 
though! You’re going to find Joe Geiger all by your- 


266 The Handwriting on the Wall 

self? Why did you ask Bessie about ‘the old 
woman’ ?” 

“Because from something A1 said to Charlie Cur¬ 
ran on Sunday night I think she knows a few things 
about Joe and where he is,” Cliff explained. “Every¬ 
body concerned will be warned now, of course. I’ve got 
to try to reach Brookfield ahead of any message and 
I haven’t a minute to lose! Remember my instruc¬ 
tions now, Ethel, and follow them to the letter. I’m 
going to put you in a taxi and send you straight back 
to the office.” 

They found a row of cabs near the park entrance, 
and handing her into one of them Cliff added a final 
admonition. 

“Don’t tell any one but Rex Powell that you’ve 
even seen me, and give any excuse you can for your own 
absence; I’m not afraid that it won’t be a good one! 
I’ll mail instructions to each of the boys when I want 
them to take a hand. Good luck, Ethel, and let me 
find you at your desk when I come in!” 

Ethel laughed and nodded, but when the taxi door 
closed and she was bowling off downtown, the light 
of adventure dawned again in her eyes and crystal¬ 
lized in a look of resolve. She would obey—to a cer¬ 
tain point. Mr. Powell could come for her and take 
her home, but the hours between needn’t all be spent 
at that desk, although she would do her best to man¬ 
age to be there when Cliff Nichols returned. The 
case would be over by then, however, and the murderer 
found. 


The Midnight Warning 267 

It was lunch-time when she arrived at the office of 
The Shadowers, but the panel between the ante-room 
and Rex Powell’s sanctum was open a trifle, as she 
let herself softly in with her key, and the first word 
she heard was her own name uttered in the chief’s 
resonant tones. 

“Ethel? No, I haven’t been able to learn anything 
about her, though, under a different name, I met Mrs. 
Gorham, as Cliff suggested. I don’t mind telling you, 
gentlemen, that I’m in great anxiety!” 

“I—I’m here!” Ethel announced in a small, very 
meek voice. 

There was a sudden sound of chairs being violently 
pushed back and then the panel was thrust fully aside 
and Rex appeared, followed by George Roper and 
Henry Corliss, their faces alight with eager surprise 
and relief. 

“Where have you been?” the former demanded. 

Ethel had not given that a thought in spite of Cliff’s 
reminder, but now she replied glibly: 

“I guess everybody’s got a family! I’m not boast¬ 
ing about mine but sometimes I get word from—from 
what’s left of it, and I have to—to look them up and 
—and kind of steer them off! I said I went away on 
my own business, didn’t I ?” 

“Yes, and you’re about as worthy of belief, my dear 
child, as any other female Ananias!” George eyed 
her with grim suspicion. “We don’t want to pry into 
your affairs, if they are your affairs, but we feel re¬ 
sponsible for you.” 


268 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“To whom?” Ethel asked coolly. “I’m not under 
probation, am I? There wasn’t anything much for 
me to do around here, for Mr. Nichols told me on 
Saturday that you all thought Mr. Monckton killed 
his father himself. You were doped, weren’t you, 
Mr. Roper, and Mr. Howe was tied up and 
gagged—?” 

“How do you know that?” George interrupted, his 
long countenance reddening. “We never told—I 
mean it didn’t happen to Phil before Sunday, and you 
were gone by then! I know it! You’ve been up to 
some mischief!” 

“A fat chance we have of making her tell if she 
doesn’t want to!” Harry Corliss remarked senten- 
tiously, but his small eyes twinkled. “She’s back any¬ 
way, and evidently none the worse. You haven’t an 
idea, my child, when Cliff is going to show up again?” 

“No, I haven’t!” Ethel, for the first time in her 
life, was relieved that she could tell the truth. “Has 
anything happened that you wouldn’t mind telling 
me?” 

“There’s one thing, since you still appear to take 
a little interest in the case, Ethel.” Rex spoke with a 
note of grave reproach. “It was Mr. Monckton’s 
own father who was trying to ruin him! That shows 
how deep the bitterness was, and makes the case 
against him fairly complete. The old gentleman paid 
detectives to follow him and queer his attempt to en¬ 
list any outside capital. Mr. Roper found that out 
from the chief private detective himself.” 


The Midnight Warning 269 

“The old wretch!” Ethel exclaimed indignantly, 
adding in quick afterthought: “But Richard Monck- 
ton didn’t know that! He didn’t dream it was his 
father!” 

Her hearers glanced at each other and George 
coughed. 

“Shall we finish our talk?” He waved toward the 
council room. “We are all at rather loose ends till 
Cliff reappears.” 

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you heard from him 
soon,” Ethel remarked with elaborate carelessness. 
“The last time I saw him he said something about writ¬ 
ing to you if he was too busy this week to come in.” 

Henry and George Roper had filed back into Rex 
Powell’s office, but the leader himself lingered and 
bent over the secretary’s desk. 

“The last time you saw him?” he echoed in a low 
voice. “Ethel, when was the last time?” 

She smiled quietly, then her face grew grave. 

“I have a message for you alone, Mr. Powell. I’m 
afraid you may not like it and I don’t want you to 
think I’m scared or anything, but I’ve got to tell you. 
Mr. Nichols would like it if you could arrange to—to 
go home with me from the office every night till you 
hear from him, and call for me in the morning. Just 
you, he said; none of the others.” 

“Good heavens!” he murmured in a shocked under¬ 
tone. “It is as bad as that? I might have known you 
didn’t desert us, my dear, but tell me, have you been 
in any actual danger? I shall never forgive Cliff—!” 


270 The Handwriting on the JVall 

“No, I haven’t, and anyway he—he didn’t send 
me!” she interrupted with quick loyalty. “Please, I 
can’t tell you any more, I—I’m obeying orders! He 
didn’t say anything about lunch-time, though, and per¬ 
haps I’d better go now while you are here—?” 

“No, I’ll finish my talk with the others and take 
you myself,” Rex declared with decision. “You must 
not leave this office or your home without me, Ethel, 
till this case is settled. Can it be that we’re mistaken 
after all, and the woman did arrange to have Monck- 
ton’s town house robbed?” 

“The woman?” she caught him up, and her quick 
mind traveled back to a question which Cliff had 
asked little Bessie that morning. “Do you mean Mrs. 
Regner ?” 

Rex looked startled but shook his head with a laugh. 

“That remains to be seen, my dear!” he declared. 
“Remember, no stirring out without me!” 

Cliff Nichols had crossed the ferry and at that 
moment was boarding a trolley car near the Palisades. 
He had recalled vaguely when the child Bessie had 
mentioned “Brookfield” that it was somewhere in 
northern New Jersey, and consultation of a road map 
showed that it lay half an hour’s run back from the 
Hudson. He didn’t even know Al’s last name, much 
less his sister’s, but the village was apparently a small 
one and any shopkeeper would be able to tell him who 
among the inhabitants took boarders. 

He reached it at last—a dead-alive little hamlet 
with a single, straggling village street in a cluster of 


The Midnight Warning 271 

small, unpretentious cottages and outlying farms, and 
he made his way to the post office. 

“I’m trying to find a lady somewhere in Brookfield 
who takes people to board,” he explained with an en¬ 
gaging smile to the tired-looking postmistress. 
“They’re gentlemen, mostly, who come to her, only 
a few, and they stay just a short time. She has a 
brother in New York—” 

“I guess you mean Mrs. Dobson,” the woman in¬ 
terrupted with a smile. “She’s got a little farm out 
on the road to Springville and folks go there for a 
rest; men mostly, as you say. Other people around 
here take summer boarders, but she has them all the 
year through.” 

Dobson! Cliff thanked his informant mechanically, 
inquired the road to Springville and departed in a 
daze of surprised thought. 

The private detective Radway Wicks had told 
George and Phil of Lucy Regner’s past connection with 
the famous Dobson gang, so lately broken up; could 
Al’s sister be the wife of its ringleader, who was now 
“up the river” on a long-term sentence? The name 
was not such a common one that this could be a mere 
coincidence, and it would explain many things. 

A farmer plowing in a field about a mile out directed 
him easily to the Dobson farm. It was a lonely, some¬ 
what weather-beaten little house set in spreading mead¬ 
ows, with a dark, stagnant-looking pond back of it and 
a patch of thick, desolate woods across the road. It 
looked dreary and forbidding, and the middle-aged 


272 The Handwriting on the Wall 

woman who came to the door in answer to his knock 
did not lighten the impression. She was thin and hard- 
visaged, as coarsely florid as “Al” himself, and the 
likeness between them was unmistakable. Cliff came 
to a quick decision. 

“Mrs. Dobson?” He stepped quickly in without 
waiting for an invitation and the look he cast over 
his shoulder was a masterly gesture of furtive appre¬ 
hension. “I knew your husband—up there. When 
I got out two months ago he told me to come to you 
if I wanted to lay low for a while. He spoke of your 
brother Al, too, but I don’t know him. I’ve been 
sticking to my own crowd and we’re getting out some 
new paper, but I can’t start shoving the queer for a 
while till the bulls let up trailing me because of past 
performances. I’m giving it to you straight, for I 
wouldn’t make any trouble for you if you took me in 
for a few days,” 

The woman eyed him for a minute with shrewd 
speculation, and then asked in a voice as harsh as a 
man’s : 

“What’s your name? I don’t know what you’re 
talking about, for I’m a widow; but I take boarders 
now and then, and I mind my business while they mind 
theirs.” 

“That’s all right!” Cliff winked broadly. “Of 
course you’ve got to know who you’re getting in your 
house. My moniker is Clem Norton and my picture is 
over in Brooklyn if you want to verify it, worse luck. 
I didn’t sport this mustache and the glasses then, but 


The Midnight Warning 273 

you’ll recognize me all right! That was for a check 
I was careless in autographing—you see I’m coming 
clean! I’m tired and I want a chance to turn around 
without the dicks at my heels. I’m flush and I’ll 
make it anything you say for a room and three 
squares.” 

The old alias had fallen haltingly from his lips, 
but Mrs. Dobson was sharp enough to recognize the 
truth in his tone and she vouchsafed him a wintry 
smile. 

u I’ll take a chance on you; I’ve heard of ‘High¬ 
brow Clem,’ I think, and there’s nobody else stopping 
with me just now. You’re travelin’ light, but twenty- 
five a week is all right with me.” 

Cliff produced a well-filled wallet and paid her on 
the spot for a fortnight in advance, then followed her 
up the matting-covered stairs to a small and not over 
clean room at the rear where, after filling the pitcher 
on the washstand and placing two thin towels on the 
rack, she left him. 

She had lied about being a widow, of course. Had 
she lied also about having no one else under her roof, 
or was he on a wild-goose chase? Cliff sat down gin¬ 
gerly on the edge of the creaking bed to think. She 
believed in his identity, but she would take no risk 
by admitting it; and it was plain that no warning 
could have reached her yet from her brother or Charlie 
Curran, if Joe Geiger was really hiding there. He 
would have to watch and bide his time. 

The afternoon was unconscionably long, but after a 


274 The Handwriting on the Wall 

careful survey from his window of the still, gloomy 
pond bordered by rushes and the sagging-roofed barn 
with one old man pottering about it, he opened his 
door a crack and listened. The house was so quiet 
that the ticking of the tall clock on the stairs came to 
him with almost startling distinctness and from below 
in the kitchen the rattle of stove-lids grated metal¬ 
lically on the air, but no other sound reached him and 
he flung himself down on the bed, at last, to while 
away the time with the bundle of newspapers which he 
had brought. 

They gave him one item of information which made 
his heart sink like lead; Richard Monckton was to be 
arraigned for indictment in three days! The accusa¬ 
tion was open now, the machinery of the law was in 
motion and less than seventy hours remained to gather 
the evidence necessary to block it! 

No one came near the farmhouse until suppertime, 
and when Cliff descended in response to the strident 
bell he asked if his landlady had a telephone. 

“No use for one,” Mrs. Dobson replied as she mo¬ 
tioned to one of the two places laid at the kitchen 
table. “The folks who stop with me don’t usually 
want to be bothered with calls, but you’ll find a couple 
of pay stations down in the village.” 

“I don’t need one myself just now, not for two or 
three days, and I won’t do much strolling around be¬ 
fore then,” Cliff laughed, as he seated himself, hoping 
that the relief he felt wasn’t too obvious. Any warn¬ 
ing, then, must come by personal messenger! 


The Midnight Warning 275 

The supper was unexpectedly good and Cliff ate 
heartily, then smoked a cigarette on the porch in the 
warm, fragrant darkness before ostensibly turning in. 
There was still no indication of a hidden presence, 
but his quick eye had noted that four biscuits remained 
in a pan in the open oven, the coffee pot was large and 
filled to the brim, and two extra slices of cold meat had 
been put aside on the platter. They couldn’t have been 
intended for the old hired man, for his supper was 
already spread on a little side table by the sink, and 
Cliff drew his own conclusions. 

Mrs. Dobson was still moving about in the kitchen 
and he bade her good-night as he went up to his room, 
but once there he removed his shoes, tying their laces 
together, and then saw to the condition of his pistol 
before placing it under his pillow. 

He blew out the lamp and lying down pulled the 
covers up about him, but listened with all his ears 
for a sound in the house or through the open window. 
The clock on the stairs ticked the long hours away 
until midnight, and nothing but the muffled padding 
of heavy, softly slippered feet thrice past his door 
came to him. 

Perhaps this move had not been anticipated, after 
all, by Bessie’s Uncle Charlie or his associates; per¬ 
haps the child had forgotten to repeat his question 
about Al’s “old woman” and when Mrs. Dobson’s 
confidence was wholly gained Joe Geiger might show 
himself on the scene. It seethed probable that no 
warning would come that night, in any event, and 


276 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Cliff was just on the point of disrobing and retiring in 
real earnest when a sound reached him from the road 
that made him spring up suddenly and peer out of 
his window. 

Although it commanded only a view of the rear, 
he would be able to see the reflection of a ray of 
light from the road; but there was none, yet the muffled 
chugging of a motor was approaching. An automo¬ 
bile, running as silently as possible and without lights! 

Cliff had only time to spring back into bed and 
emit a realistic snore when some one began hastily to 
move about in a room somewhere near, and, when the 
car stopped abruptly before the house and the engine 
was shut off, the same heavy but soft footsteps de¬ 
scended the stair, after pausing before his door till 
another snore from him reassured the listener. 

Then he rose stealthily once more, flung his shoes 
around his neck by their laces, and clutching his pistol 
made for the window. He had noted in the afternoon 
that the flat roof of a little porch stretched a few 
feet below and now he dropped lightly to it from the 
sill and slipped down its trellised side to the ground, 
then, stooping low, he crept around the house. 

The car, a low-swung roadster, stood dark and ap¬ 
parently empty before the steps, but a tiny gleam of 
light came through the shuttered window of a front 
room which Cliff had never entered, and he crouched 
beneath it. 

Nothing reached his ears but the low, indistinguish¬ 
able murmur of voices, Mrs. Dobson’s harsh tones, 


The Midnight Warning 277 

subdued but quickened, and deeper, masculine ones. 
Then a shadow crossed the shutters and a third voice, 
whining and shaking, but masculine also, joined the 
other two and Cliff tensed suddenly. If they went up¬ 
stairs to confront him, and found him missing, a hue 
and cry would be raised and he would have to take to 
the woods across the way or commandeer the car, his 
chances of ultimate escape being, in either case, ex¬ 
tremely problematical. He waited in an agony of sus¬ 
pense, but not for long, for the door opened suddenly, 
and in the glow from the lighted lamp within, Al’s 
heavy figure was outlined for an instant, with a stocky 
form behind him, gesturing excitedly with long arms. 

It was obvious that neither intended to waste time 
then in bothering about him, for A1 jumped into the 
car, and when the other endeavored to scramble up 
beside him he thrust him away with a force that made 
the stocky figure reel. 

“Give me a lift, Al, for God’s sake!’’ A choking 
cry came from the man as he steadied himself. “Just 
for a few miles till I can hit a trolley line! You 
wouldn’t'beat it and leave me with them as close as 
this!” 

“Nothing doing, Joe!” The answer sent a thrill 
through Cliff’s veins. “I’m on the square with you 
boys and I’d do anything in reason, but I ain’t getting 
caught with you on board! You’ll be all right if you 
lay off the snow, and this time to-morrow you can be 
miles away before the word goes out. Don’t try any 
rough stuff, you know—well, I mean what I say! 


278 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Good luck, and watch your step. I’ll come across if 
you need any more. So long!” 

The motor started and the car slid off down the 
road, while the man left behind, with a smothered 
sound between an oath and a sob, went off at a sham¬ 
bling run in the opposite direction. Cliff jerked apart 
the strings of his shoes, slipped his feet into them, 
and followed like a darker moving shadow in the night, 
while from the farmhouse behind them a sudden cry 
went up in the Dobson woman’s hoarse tones: 

“He’s gone!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE CELLAR ON HESTER STREET 

T HE pawnshop of Mr. Lazarus on Hester Street 
was brilliantly lighted on Wednesday night, dis¬ 
playing its cheap jewelry and pathetic house¬ 
hold goods to the best advantage, but revealing noth¬ 
ing that could by any stretch of the imagination be 
looked upon as stolen goods. 

An examination of the smaller of his safes inside 
would have told a different story, for it contained a 
respectable fortune in diamonds and colored stones, 
all, curiously enough, without their settings; and the 
packing cases in the cellar were filled with costly orna¬ 
ments and heterogeneous collection of old silver and 
gold. 

Mr. Lazarus himself, greed struggling with fear 
on his bearded countenance, sat before his desk in the 
little back room and thoughtfully contemplated the 
banknotes laid enticingly before him. 

“I couldn’t do it!” he asserted at last. “Not for a 
century, anyhow! I give you boys an even break al¬ 
ways, many a time I take things that it isn’t easy to 
get rid of, and I lose often on the deal because you fel¬ 
lows have got to turn them over quick and I wouldn’t 
disappoint you; but this is something else again, and 
more risky. Stolen goods is one thing, Charlie my 
279 


280 The Handwriting on the Wall 

friend, but hiding a wanted guy is another, and how 
do I know you tell me all the truth?” 

“Say, look here, Lazarus!” The young man he 
called “Charlie” leaned persuasively forward in his 
chair. “I’m giving it to you straight, and you never 
knew me to be yellow, did you? I tell you they’re 
after Joe for that Ingram business, and the diamonds 
from the necklace came to you for a quarter of what 
you’ll get for them! You ought to be willing to do 
Joe a good turn!” 

“Always good turns I am doing,” Mr. Lazarus re¬ 
torted querulously. “To nobody do I owe anything; 
and how do I know Joe ain’t wanted for something 
besides the necklace business yet? Something hap¬ 
pened last week that looks kind of funny to me! I 
wouldn’t say a word about it to nobody, but maybe 
Joe is in it and for that the bulls want him! It ain’t 
my business, Gott sei dank, but I ain’t hidin’ no momser 
in my cellar that’s wanted on a charge like that, for 
a hundredt dollar, I’ll tell it to the vorld! At my age 
if I should go up they might as well give me life!” 

“But Joe ain’t done anything last week, I’m say¬ 
ing!” Charlie persisted doggedly. “You got him dead 
wrong now, Lazarus! There ain’t even a broadcast 
out for him; only a bunch of no-account private dicks 
that Ingram’s called in.” 

“Private fellers, eh?” the old pawnbroker inter¬ 
rupted slyly. “You sure they ain’t calling themselves 
‘The Shadowers’ by no chance? I read about them 
schlemmils somewheres!” 


The Cellar on Hester Street 281 

“Sure they ain’t!” Charlie shook his head, but a 
dull flush mounted in his cheeks. “Look here, I’ll 
make it two hundred, but that’s the best I can do, 
honest! Take it or leave it! You ain’t got to do 
anything now but put out the lights and go upstairs 
to bed. If you don’t happen to think of that door, 
leading into the cellar of the closed-up gin-mill next 
door and out on the alley, it ain’t to be wondered at, 
for it hasn’t been used in years and you don’t know 
nothing about how it come to be open, get me? I’d 
take him home to my sister’s, it’s that safe; but the 
damned flatties are lampin’ the layout up there and 
we’ve got the kid to think of. In the morning when 
you take down the shutters there’ll be nobody in the 
cellar and not a box so much as moved! It’s pretty 
good pickin’s for one night’s lodging. Think it over, 
Lazarus!” 

Mr. Lazarus meditated for a moment longer, but 
the sight of the augmented roll of bills was too much 
for his caution and he succumbed. He stroked his 
scraggy beard. 

“All right, I take it!” he shrugged. “Get out now 
quick before I change my mind yet! The door in the 
cellar will be open when Joe comes, but mind he don’t 
smoke with all that excelsior around; he’s sniffling 
that coke again and maybe he forgets!” 

Charlie promised and took his leave by the side 
door, but just around the corner, in a teeming tene¬ 
ment, a black-eyed, black-haired woman waited for 
him and when they moved off a figure loitering in the 


282 The Handwriting on the Wall 

shadows of a doorway crept forth and slunk after 
them. 

Meanwhile Mr. Lazarus turned out his display 
lights, and leaving only one small globe glowing he 
descended to the cellar, picked his way between bar¬ 
rels and cases with the surety of long habit and un¬ 
bolted a low door half hidden in the masonry of the 
wall. Then he mounted hastily to his shop once more, 
saw to it that the fastenings were in shape at door and 
windows, and ascended the second flight of narrow 
stairs leading up from the back room to his exceed¬ 
ingly dirty couch in a chamber littered with the over¬ 
flow of cheap wares from below. 

An hour passed, and then all at once there came a 
soft scratching sound in the wall of the rat infested 
cellar, and in another moment the little door opened 
stealthily and the pinpoint of light from an electric 
torch swept about like a spark. 

“Come on, Joe; you’re all right now!” A woman’s 
whisper cut the silence. “Don’t forget to bolt the 
door again after I’m gone, and curl up on that roll of 
old rugs over there. Cut out the snow for one 
night, if you’ve got any with you, and try to get a lit¬ 
tle rest.” 

“God, I’m tired,” a weary voice croaked. “I ain’t 
got any coke, honest, and I’m off the stuff, anyway! 
You’re sure gonna get me on that freighter to¬ 
morrow ?” 

“Haven’t I seen you through so far?” the woman 
demanded. “Shut up and lay low now and I’ll meet 


The Cellar on Hester Street 283 

you at six back in the alley, here. Is that good 
enough? Don’t forget the door!” 

It slammed softly as her voice ceased, and her foot¬ 
steps died away in the echoing stillness, but the soli¬ 
tary occupant of the cellar did indeed proceed to forget 
it with promptness and despatch. He fumbled nerv¬ 
ously with the edge of the lining of his coat and finally 
produced a small packet of paper which he examined 
shakily by the aid of his flashlight. It contained some 
crystals of fine white powder, and sprinkling them on 
the back of his hand he inhaled them avidly through 
his nostrils. Had he not been so deeply engaged he 
might have been aware of a slight creaking, as the 
door in the wall opened once more and a slim shape 
slipped through, closing it carefully again and stand¬ 
ing back against it, scarcely breathing in the darkness; 
but Joe was oblivious. 

With a sigh of satisfaction he dropped back on the 
roll of rugs and his heavy lids dropped over his blood¬ 
shot eyes. 

Not in many a night had he slept, except in fitful 
moments, and for thirty-six hours he had not dared 
snatch a moment’s rest. That sudden alarm of the 
previous evening, the nightmare of endless miles of 
travel over a rough road, where he constantly lost his 
way in the darkness and there seemed ever the con¬ 
sciousness of some one just behind, the ferry at last 
and then a long stretch of deserted streets in the gray¬ 
ing dawn, the getting turned down by one after an¬ 
other of the pals on whom he’d depended and finally 


284 The Handwriting on the Wall 

meeting Charlie just outside Al’s, where he hadn’t 
dared to enter—it was all like a hideous, distorted 
dream now! 

Good old Charlie had persuaded A1 to take him in 
for the day, and had arranged with old Lazarus, the 
fence, for this brief shelter. In the morning he’d float 
downstream, sitting pretty on a freighter bound for 
New Orleans, and he’d never hit this cursed town 
again! 

What was that? It seemed to Joe that something 
moved—something bigger than a rat and more cau¬ 
tious ! He half raised himself, and his fingers crooked 
instinctively about the gun sticking out of the waist¬ 
band of his trousers. Then they relaxed and he sank 
back once more. 

Nothing there of course! It wasn’t worth while to 
flash his light, for if any one had followed, it would 
only give them the drop on him, but it was only his 
wretched nerves, gone to pieces because, in Al’s pres¬ 
ence and the woman’s, he couldn’t get at his precious 
packet of “snow.” 

He was better now, soothed and able to think 
shrewdly of the morrow. He’d been clever, mighty 
clever; there couldn’t be any hitch now, and once in 
New Orleans he could open up that money belt that 
even Al, even the woman didn’t know he had on, and 
spend, and forget, and learn to sleep again— 

By God, there was somebody there! This time he 
sprang up with his gun drawn, lighting, like a cat, 
on his toes with his knees slightly bent and his head 


The Cellar on Hester Street 285 

thrust down between his shoulders. Why didn’t they 
come on, damn them! Why did they wait, skulking 
there in the darkness to drive a guy out of his mind 
with the suspense of it! 

He shook with temptation to switch on his light, 
to scream out defiance at the menace waiting there to 
seize him, but he knew the madness of such an im¬ 
pulse. His ears seemed unusually keen, and in the 
stillness rasped by his own raucous breathing he heard 
steps, slow, measured and incredibly light, creeping 
toward him! 

Now they were verging off to the right; there was 
a soft thud as they came in contact with a barrel or 
crate—they were circling but coming ever nearer, and 
insensibly he circled with them in an opposite direc¬ 
tion, striving to work away from the wall. 

By a miracle Joe escaped the litter all about, by a 
miracle he held on grimly to the remnants of his self- 
control, while his flaming fancy pictured the pursuer 
he could not see! Minutes, hours, seemed to pass 
while that grotesque dance went on in the pitch black¬ 
ness with only the slither of feet and his own hoarse 
breath to pierce that uncanny silence, and then some¬ 
thing snapped in Joe’s brain. 

With a scream more animal than human he leaped 
suddenly forward, firing a wild fusillade from his 
pistol that seemed to blast the solid masonry about 
him, his face in the flashes of spitting flame distorted 
and fiendish beyond semblance of living mortal by the 
rage and despair that ravaged his sick soul. 


286 The Handwriting on the Wall 

Clifford Nichols, the opponent in that protracted 
duel of endurance, felt almost a sense of relief when 
the end came at last; his own pistol spoke when the 
first reverberation of Joe’s opening fire was crashed in 
upon the second shot, but a searing agony darted like 
the thrust of a knife through his side and he fell with 
a strangling gasp just as the cellar was flooded with 
light. 

He must be dying, of course—delirious or crazy, for 
there was Joe Geiger over near the opposite wall, but 
it seemed as if Ethel Jepson, of all people, stood full 
in the glare, knocking his pistol spinning from his 
hand and grappling single-handed with the crazed 
crook and murderer, while a woman whom he had 
never seen was struggling in the grasp of Phil Howe 
there by the cellar door! 

Then the lights faded, and with the shrill call of 
the first police whistles Cliff Nichols sighed deeply and 
drifted off into unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER XXIII 
‘out of the mouths-” 


WO days later Richard Monckton was arraigned 



in the Court of Special Sessions for indictment 


by the grand jury on the charge of murdering 
his father. 

The room was crowded to the doors, and the thirty 
men who were to decide whether or not the circum¬ 
stantial evidence was sufficient to hold the young man 
for trial were the only ones who were seated in any 
degree of comfort. 

The prisoner himself, by virtue of a dramatic in¬ 
spiration on the part of the prosecuting attorney, was 
under an ostentatiously heavy guard near his counsel, 
Grosvenor Hood, and had borne himself with a simple 
dignity that rose serenely above the attempts to belittle 
and deride it. 

Beside Grosvenor Hood at the counsel table was 
seated a small, almost insignificant looking man whose 
high, bald head shone like glass and who moved his 
pallid, thin lips but seldom, and then to murmur only 
a word or two. It was noticeable, however, that Hood 
himself, distinguished in a less sensational branch of 
the legal fraternity, paid him almost obsequious at¬ 
tention; and the representative of the press, at his first 
coming, had stared and then scribbled furiously, for 
Lemuel Lazenby was the most notable figure in con- 


288 The Handwriting on the IVall 

temporaneous criminal law. Hood had not boasted 
vainly to The Shadowers about obtaining as his asso¬ 
ciate counsel “the best in America.” 

Seated a little apart from them were two men who 
contemplated the proceedings with even deeper gravity 
than the rest of the spectators. One was exceedingly 
fat and bald, with small eyes that twinkled irrepres¬ 
sibly, and the other a tall, spare individual whose 
lugubrious countenance bore a look of almost preter¬ 
natural solemnity. From motives of discretion, 
George Roper and Henry Corliss had been voted the 
only members of The Shadowers qualified to represent 
the organization at a public arraignment in the East, 
and they bore their honors with fitting aplomb. 

The State had already produced all but one of their 
witnesses, and the tense atmosphere in the court-room 
had crystallized slowly but inevitably into a cloud of 
animosity and condemnation of the prisoner, almost 
tangible enough to be visible. Even the judges felt 
it, and the indictment was so much a foregone conclu¬ 
sion that the reporters had begun to lose interest in 
the proceedings, as witness succeeded witness on the 
stand and told, each with more or less reluctance, of 
the feud between Richard and his father, and the for¬ 
mer’s desperate need of the money from which only 
that frail, aged life had separated him. 

Beginning with the police and detectives who had an¬ 
swered Richard’s summons to the town house in the 
early hours of the previous Friday morning, the prose¬ 
cution had passed to Mrs. Miller, who had testified 


“Out of the Mouths —” 289 

to the prolonged differences between father and son, 
culminating in the quarrel, during which the latter 
was turned out of the house, and to the father’s subse¬ 
quent refusal to permit Richard’s name to be uttered 
in his presence. 

The testimony of the butler, Peter Downes, had 
corroborated her, as did the sworn affidavit of old Jim 
Ricks from his hospital bed, and this attitude of the 
loyal elderly servants created as profound an impres¬ 
sion as the district attorney had counted upon. 

They had been followed on the stand by various 
social and financial acquaintances of both the Monck- 
tons who had added details to the account of the 
breach and told of the crucial state of Richard 
Monckton’s financial affairs, throwing interesting side¬ 
lights on his impetuous, often violent disposition. 

The proceedings had been constantly interrupted by 
a storm of objections from the counsel for the defense, 
but even those made personally by the celebrated asso¬ 
ciate counsel had been seldom sustained, and, with the 
wholly circumstantial but damning evidence against 
their client mounting higher and higher, they seemed 
to have sensed the futility of further interference. 

When the name of Chester Norcross was called, 
Hood leaped to his feet, however, in instant protest 
but, having been again silenced, he seated himself 
once more with an almost despairing glance at his asso¬ 
ciate. The latter was watching the door and a little 
anticipatory smile began to settle about his stern lips. 

Chester Norcross gave evidence of his early ac- 


290 The Handwriting on the Wall 

quaintance with the prisoner before the bar, and after 
reiterated protestations that he bore no personal en¬ 
mity against him, testified, with unconsciously revealed 
malicious joy to the latter’s unprovoked and unwar¬ 
ranted interference in his personal affairs, culminating 
in what he characterized as an attempt to take his life 
in a moment of murderous rage. 

Cross-examination failed to shake him, and it ap¬ 
peared to the spectators that the defense’s counsel had 
become merely perfunctory in their efforts to save their 
client from indictment, for their attempts to upset 
Norcross’s testimony were so obviously half-hearted 
as to become almost farcical, and the State rested its 
case triumphantly, waiting with amused tolerance to 
see what the defense would offer in rebuttal. 

During that moment of keenest anticipation two 
men entered the room together and unobtrusively 
seated themselves on a bench, which by some strange 
chance had been vacated by two other spectators 
but a moment before. The elder of these was dis¬ 
tinguished in appearance, with broad-rimmed glasses 
and a small, dark mustache. He was pale, though, 
and his drawn face twitched occasionally as if he were 
in pain, while he held himself stiffly as though shielding 
some unseen wound from contact. His companion was 
pale also, but with a sallowness that to the initiated 
was unmistakable, and his contracted eyes wandered 
nervously about the courtroom. 

None heeded him, however, for the collective gaze 


“Out of the Mouths —” 291 

of the multitude was fastened upon Lazenby, who had 
risen and was addressing the court in his turn. 

“Your honor and gentlemen of the jury, the de¬ 
fense has only two witnesses to offer. We shall make 
no attempt to refute the testimony of the several wit¬ 
nesses who have appeared on behalf of the State and 
the people of this commonwealth. We shall merely 
by your leave bring forward a fact which has not yet 
been touched upon. I should like to examine Mr. 
Clifford Nichols if he is present.” 

The clerk of the court repeated the name and the 
pale, distinguished looking individual who had en¬ 
tered with his oddly dissimilar companion rose and 
approached the witness stand. When he had been 
sworn in Lemuel Lazenby asked: 

“Your profession, Mr. Nichols?” 

“I am a private detective,” Cliff responded in a 
weak but steady tone. “A member of the firm incor¬ 
porated under the name of The Shadowers.” 

“Who enlisted your services in connection with this 
case?” 

“Mr. Grosvenor Hood, of the counsel for the de¬ 
fense.” 

“When?” 

“Last Friday morning.” 

“Did you view the scene of the crime?” 

“I did, sir. I examined minutely the room in which 
Mr. de Puyster Monckton had been found dead.” 

“Will you describe in detail to the Court and the 


292 The Handwriting on the Wall 

gentlemen of the jury the discoveries, if any, which 
you made there?” 

“On the wall beside the telephone was written a 
series of four figures, 6-09-0.” Cliff’s quiet, well- 
bred voice reached to the farthest corners of the vast 
room and George and Henry turned and stared long 
and questioningly at each other. What was Cliff put¬ 
ting over? Hadn’t that number been 6099? 

“You are positive of this?” The attorney was 
evidently asking for a repetition to impress the fact 
upon the minds of the jury, and Cliff complied. 

“I am certain. The figures were 6-0-9-0. They 
had been written with a soft lead pencil, in an irregular 
downward slant, with open loops and a wavering tail 
on the ‘9.’ They were unevenly spaced also, the fig¬ 
ures at both ends separated widely from the two center 
ones, which all but overlapped, and the pencil had 
been pressed so deeply into the wall-paper that it had 
left indentations, with a sharp gouge at the loop of the 
final ‘o’ where the lead had broken short off, leaving 
a superfluous downstroke and scattered dots. I dis¬ 
covered also the fragment of lead broken from the 
pencil; it was lying on the white linen floor-covering 
just below the telephone instrument.” 

Lazenby submitted in evidence the scrap of lead, 
and a paper tracing together with the impression from 
it, and although the prosecution interposed an objec¬ 
tion it was overruled. 

“Do you recognize this tracing?” The attorney 
passed it forward, and Cliff glanced at it and nodded. 


"Out of the Mouths —” 293 

“Yes. I made it myself, from the figures written 
on the wall.” 

It was handed to the jury for their inspection and 
Lazenby continued: “What is your special line of work 
in connection with The Shadowers?” 

“I am the handwriting expert of the corporation,” 
Cliff replied with dignity. 

“It was in that capacity that you assumed entire 
charge of this investigation into the death of Mr. 
Monckton?” 

“Yes. It was clearly a handwriting case. By no 
other means could the murderer of Mr. Monckton 
have been traced.” 

This time the prosecuting attorney’s roar of objec¬ 
tion was sustained, but the calm assertion had made 
an ineradicable impression on Court and spectators 
alike. 

“As a handwriting expert, then, would you say that 
these wavering, uneven figures had been written by an 
aged person?” 

“No. I should say they had been written gropingly 
by one who could not see. I should say they had been 
written in the dark.” 

Again came an objection and again it was sustained, 
but Lazenby went on: 

“Did you make any further discoveries?” 

“Not until my second visit to the estate where the 
crime took place. On a spike of the high iron fence, 
near a footpath, I found a torn fragment of worn blue 
serge.” 


294 The Handwriting on the Wall 

The scrap of cloth was admitted in evidence and 
identified, and then Clifford was turned over to the dis¬ 
trict attorney, who submitted him to a grueling cross- 
examination but could not shake his testimony. 

As he stepped down from the stand the clerk of the 
court called: 

“Bessie Farley.” 

A little figure in a simple white frock rose from far 
back among the spectators and tripped forward, round¬ 
eyed and blushing shyly, but undismayed, while a stir 
ran around the courtroom and the prisoner himself 
stared in unconcealed amazement. 

“This baby cannot know the meaning and nature 
of an oath!” The district attorney was on his feet 
in a moment to guard against an unexpected attack 
from this wholly undreamed-of quarter, but Bessie 
herself replied to him. 

Her polite little piping voice brought instant, elec¬ 
trified silence into the vast room. 

“Oh, excuth me, thir, but I do! My mamma told 
me; it meanth promithing to God to tell the truth.” 

“The little lady seems thoroughly conversant—i” 
Lazenby began, but the prosecutor broke in upon 
him. 

“I object on the grounds of this child’s age! Her 
statements cannot be acceptable as evidence! The 
learned counsel for the defense must indeed be at his 
wit’s end to go to the nursery for a forlorn hope!” 

The wrangle was interrupted by the presiding judge, 
who announced curtly: 


“Out of the Mouths —” 295 

“Objection overruled. Let the oath be administered 
to the witness.” 

Bessie’s little hand was promptly uplifted and her 
childish treble repeated the covenant unfalteringly, 
with a sweet seriousness that increased the impression 
she had made. Then Lazenby took charge. 

“Bessie, where do you live?” 

“At 840 West One Hundred and Tenth Street.” 
The lisp had fallen from her now that they were going 
to let her tell her own story, and help Joe in whatever 
was troubling him. She didn’t know what it was, ex¬ 
cept that somehow it was connected with the sad¬ 
faced young man they called the “prisoner at the bar.” 
Bessie smiled with happy confidence into the austere 
face of Lazenby. 

“Who else lives there?” His tone had become al¬ 
most benignly paternal. # 

“In our flat? My mamma and my Uncle Charlie.” 

“Have you a telephone?” 

“Oh, yes! It was only put in a little while ago!” 
Her replies came readily, with unstudied promptitude. 

“Can you remember the number, Bessie?” There 
was an added weightiness in the attorney’s voice with 
this question, but the child’s na'ive unconcern brought 
the portent of her response home to her hearers all 
the more poignantly. 

“Of course. It’s Parkside 6-09-0.” 

A murmur of astonishment and expectancy rose and 
swelled, but the Judge’s gavel descended sharply and 
quiet was restored. Richard Monckton’s eyes shone 


296 The Handwriting on the Wall 

with swiftly reawakened hope, Henry Corliss and 
George Roper were stunned and the prosecutor visibly 
taken aback, but the witness was wholly unconscious 
of any special significance in her reply and gazed in 
docile inquiry at the nice, gentle old man who was ques¬ 
tioning her. 

“You’re sure of the number, 6-09-0?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir. You can see it there now if you go to 
our house, and besides I answer it lots of times for 
Uncle Charlie and his friends.” Her clear, sweet 
tones seemed to strike like a bell’s peal on the highly 
charged tension in the air. 

“Did you answer the telephone at your home last 
Thursday evening, Bessie ?” 

“No, sir. It didn’t ring.” She wriggled a trifle in 
her chair. “I didn’t have any lessons to do for next 
day ’cause I was mumping, but mamma read to me 
after supper; Uncle Charlie had gone to Al’s. That’s 
how I remember; it was the last nice time we’ve had!” 

“What time did your Uncle Charlie come home? 
Do you remember?” 

Bessie nodded energetically. 

“Yes, ’cause Uncle Charlie asked if Joe had called 
him up and said it was eleven; that Joe had called him 
at Al’s and he’d given Joe our new number to tele¬ 
phone in an hour. He was awful worried, and waited 
up after mamma sent me to bed.” 

“It was eleven o’clock on Thursday night when your 
uncle came home, and Joe had called him up at Al’s 
more than an hour before; your uncle had at that time 


“Out of the Mouths —” 


297 


given Joe the new telephone number 6-09-0?” Laz- 
enby reiterated impressively. “Why was your uncle 
worried when he returned and learned Joe had not 
called him?” 

The district attorney sprang up with an anxious pro¬ 
test, thinly veiled in sarcasm, as to the relevancy of the 
testimony but the judge overruled him and the question 
was repeated. 

“Uncle Charlie said he was sorry he’d given our 
number to Joe just then; that Joe took a risk in calling 
from where he did.” Bessie spoke slowly, wrinkling 
her small brow in the effort to remember. 

“And where was Joe, Bessie, when he called your 
uncle up at Al’s? Do you know?” Lazenby leaned 
toward her. 

“No, thir.” The child shook her head and the 
neatly braided loops of brown hair flapped about her 
ears. “I gueth he wath vithiting in thombody’th houth 
where there wath a baby, cauth Uncle Charlie thaid 
thomthing about a ‘crib.’ ” 

This time the murmur became an uproar, and it 
was with difficulty that the judge quelled it. The asso¬ 
ciate counsel for the defense gave Bessie a moment 
in which to recover from the embarrassment that had 
tripped her tongue to lisping again, and then inquired 
gently. 

“Did Joe call up on the telephone the next day—last 
Friday?” 

“No, sir. Uncle Charlie went out early and bought 
a paper and when he came in he looked terrible white 


298 The Handwriting on the Wall 

and sick. My mamma cried out, and then they went 
into the kitchen and shut the door and talked ever 
so long. I was playing with my doll that Joe gave 
me, and when they came out, Uncle Charlie said if 
anybody called up and I answered the telephone, I 
wasn’t to talk to them if I didn’t know who they were 
and I wasn’t to say a word about Joe to anybody, ever! 
I wasn’t to let anybody know I had heard his name! 
Uncle Charlie said that the Bad Man would come and 
get me if I did. He looked awful scared and my 
mamma, too, and—and she cries a lot!” The piping 
voice trembled and Bessie’s sensitive lips quivered a 
little. “My Uncle Charlie don’t play with me any 
more, either, and I was glad when the lady that talked 
to me in the Park said I was to come and help Joe.” 

The lady! This time George and Henry ventured a 
second questioning, suspicious glance at each other. 
It could not have been a female operative of the po¬ 
lice, for the authorities had known no more than they 
of this sudden turn of events—but Ethel? Had their 
enterprising secretary added kidnaping to the list of 
her enormities in the interest of The Shadowers? 

But Lazenby was going on in his smooth, fatherly 
tones. 

“Who is Joe, Bessie?” 

“He’s a friend of ours—Joe Geiger. He’s awful 
nice!” Her round eyes suddenly shone. “He gave 
me a lovely doll, and once when he was showing us 
some jewelry—rings and things—he wanted to give 
me a bracelet with pretty blue stones in it, but mamma 


“Out of the Mouths —” 299 

wouldn’t let him; she said a—a curse would go with it, 
but Joe and Uncle Charlie just laughed.” 

“Have you seen Joe since last Thursday night?” 

Bessie shook her head again, dolefully this time. 

“No, and Uncle Charlie says we won’t; that Joe’s 
going away—!” Then her eyes suddenly alighted 
and her small finger pointed straight at the sallow 
stranger who had entered with Cliff Nichols and who 
now sat cowering in his chair. “Why, there he is now! 
—. Hello , Joe / 99 

The innocent, joyous greeting rang out like the 
voice of doom and in the shocked silence that followed 
the man leaped wildly to his feet. “I done it! I killed 
the old man, but Gawd knows I didn’t mean to!” 

When the prisoner had been released, the self-con¬ 
fessed murderer of de Puyster Monckton led away, 
and a semblance of quiet restored to the hysterical 
throng, one of the guards who had attended Richard 
Monckton turned to the other. 

“I never saw the beat of that in Special Sessions!” 
he exclaimed behind his hand. “The child not even 
knowing she was sending a man to his death! For 
what do they allow kids in court? The Gerry Society 
should have put a stop to it!” 

“ ’Twas not the child done it, Jawn. ’Twas fate 
workin’ agin him!” The second guard shook his 
head. “He’ll get the chair and serve him right! Ain’t 
there a sayin’ that out of the mouths of babes and 
suckers comes the word that’ll put you wise?” 


CHAPTER XXIV 
ethel’s reward 

FORTNIGHT later the six Shadowers were 



holding a meeting in the central council cham¬ 


ber, presided over by Rex Powell, and gravely 
regarding three objects which were assembled on the 
table before them. The first was a series of large, 
typewritten sheets of paper fastened together with a 
clip, the second a certified check, and the third a square 
flat jeweler’s case of sizable dimensions. 

“What do you suppose has been the matter with 
Ethel?” Henry asked anxiously. “Never knew her 
to be sick a day since she first came to us, and she 
hasn’t shown up since the case ended! You’re sure 
she is actually at home, Rex? Mrs. Gorham isn’t stall¬ 
ing for her? She told you Ethel had been really ill, 
but that it wasn’t serious? Why the devil wouldn’t 
she say what it was, then?” 

“I don’t know,” Rex Powell replied. “I’m con¬ 
vinced she is telling the truth when she says Ethel is 
at home, but Ethel herself may have had some reason 
of her own for denying herself to us all this time. 
However, Mrs. Gorham assured me over the ’phone 
this morning that my secretary would be able to resume 
her duties to-day.” 

“I’ve prided myself on my ability to read charac- 


301 


Ethel 9 s Reward 

ter 1 ” George shook his head. “It’s stood me in good 
stead in every ‘con’ game I’ve worked for nearly forty 
years, but I’m ready to put Ethel down as one of my 
permanent failures. To tell you the truth, I thought 
she had been unduly smitten with the charms of our 
client, and I wonder how she’ll take the news of his 
renewed engagement to Barbara Norcross that was 
published yesterday in all the papers? Still, there is 
the young man of the daily flowers and the donor of 
the Pekingese. We must still take him into considera¬ 
tion.” 

“That’s tommyrot about Monckton—Ethel stuck 
up for him because she believed in him, and that’s 
where she showed common sense.” Phil Howe tilted 
his chair back and thrust both hands into his pockets. 
She and Cliff were the only wise ones in the bunch, and 
it’s lucky for young Monckton that we gave Cliff the 
case to handle! Lucky for the reputation of The 
Shadowers, too, but the rest of us were prize boobs! 
Why, even when I found out that Lucy was in with 
a gang, I couldn’t convince myself that there’d really 
been a thief there in the Monckton house and that 
she’d tipped him off to the lay!” 

“But you saved the day in the end, Phil!” Cliff 
Nichols exclaimed. “I suppose I ought to have taken 
you all into my confidence, but I couldn’t change your 
opinion and I meant to work it out alone. I know 
we agreed to wait till Ethel came back for our final 
reports on the case, but it’s all wound up, now that 
Monckton’s check has come, and I want to know how 


302 The Handwriting on the Wall 

you got on the Regner woman’s trail again and why 
it led to that cellar just when Joe Geiger had opened 
fire on me.” 

“I found an old friend of mine who’d worked in 
with the Dobson gang and he told me where she had 
been staying since Sunday, when she and the rough- 
stuff guy got rid of me so neatly—she was with the 
mother of one of the boys who’s doing time now,” 
Phil explained. “I watched from Monday, when I 
was tipped off, till Wednesday morning, when Joe 
Geiger came to her. She must have turned him down 
but she didn’t dare give him the go-by entirely, for 
when that Charlie Curran showed up at her joint that 
night she went with him down to the old fence, Laz¬ 
arus, on Hester Street. I did business with him myself 
in the old days, and I knew about that cellar, but of 
course I wasn’t wise that it was Joe who’d croaked 
the old man, or that they wanted to hide him there 
that night. 

“Charlie must have got cold feet, for it was Lucy 
who went to Al’s speak-easy, got Joe and took him 
back down there. She came out alone and waited in 
the alley, and me with her, although she wasn’t wise 
to that; and after a bit she beat it into the cellar 
of the empty saloon next door to Lazarus’ and listened. 
With the first shot she was through that connecting 
door and me after her! I switched on the lights and 
grabbed her when she tried to hold me back from 
reaching Joe, and then all at once Ethel was there, 
knocking the gun from his hand, but Cliff was down! 


Ethel’s Reward 


303 


“When I saw that I forgot all about the she-devil 
and sailed into Joe, but the fight was all gone out of 
him and he was blubbering like a kid. The police 
whistles were blowing like hell outside and I knew 
Cliff would be taken care of; we didn’t want our game 
gummed up at the very last, for I’d twigged what was 
up and that the bulls would get all the credit, so I 
made Ethel help me hustle Joe up that alley and 
through another that I was wise to, till I could get 
him to Pink-Eye Mike’s, where we kept him till the 
morning of the grand jury proceedings. 

“Ethel rushed off to the hospital, where they’d taken 
you, Cliff, and as soon as she’d found out you only 
had a nicked rib from Joe’s shot she came and told 
me and then beat it away somewhere. That’s all I 
had to do with it.” 

“It was more than any of the rest of us did to 
help Cliff!” Lucian Baynes remarked. “I feel like a 
crass idiot! Cliff, tell us now what put you on the 
right track about the real ’phone number written there 
on the wall.” 

“Ethel did that!” Cliff smiled. “That was why 
I took her into partnership with me, but I might have 
known I couldn’t handle her!” 

He told them in detail all that had occurred since 
Ethel’s discovery, to the midnight hour when he had 
followed the murderer from the lonely Dobson farm 
by way of trolley and ferry to one after another of 
his old friends and accomplices until he found tem¬ 
porary shelter at “Al’s” illicit saloon. 


304 The Handwriting on the Wall 

“Then you appeared on the scene, Phil, trailing 
Lucy when she came Wednesday evening to take Joe 
down to Lazarus’ cellar,” Cliff added with a laugh. 
“You trailed them and I brought up the rear, but 
when you two halted in the alley, after she had re¬ 
appeared, I slipped past you and went into the cellar 
after Joe. The rest you know, but I made one bone- 
head play and I’m going to confess it. Do you re¬ 
member, Phil, when we first examined the Monckton 
house I asked you to jimmy the desk in the room where 
the murder took place and bring me whatever papers 
you found there that contained anything except ordi¬ 
nary accounts?” 

Phil Howe nodded. 

“I did. I brought you some that just had figures 
and dates written on them, and the initials ‘R. W.’ and 
an ‘R’ by itself here and there. You never said any¬ 
thing about them after I gave them to you.” 

“Because I forgot them completely! I never even 
examined them till George learned from that private 
detective that the old man had hired him to follow 
Richard and queer his financial game. Then I found 
those papers were a record of Radway Wicks’ reports 
and expense accounts, together with the various sums 
de Puyster Monckton had spent in his different at¬ 
tempts to break his son. Richard had to be told, of 
course, after he was set free, and his father’s own 
lawyer, Raymond Sanders, supplied the motive. 

“The old man was determined to ruin Richard in 
Wall Street in the hope that it would break his pride 


Ethel’s Reward 305, 

and bring his son to him for a reconciliation, willing 
at last to carry on the banking institution which his 
ancestors had founded. It hadn’t anything to do with 
the crime, but it complicated the investigation rather 
seriously for us. Did Wicks explain to you why he 
went to the Manor late that Saturday night?” 

Cliff turned to George, who nodded. 

“He trusts in our appreciation of the ethics of our 
calling which would prevent us from giving him away, 
but he went to get possession, if he could, of the very 
memoranda which Phil had found and given to you. 
He’d been paid good money but he’d lent himself to 
a pretty rotten game of the old man’s, even if it was 
from a clean motive, and it would put him and his 
agency in a shady light and injure his business. 
George paused and added: “It all seems clear enough 
now, especially with Joe’s confession. Cliff had doped 
out how the murder occurred accurately, hadn’t 
he?” 

“Yes.” Rex took up the typed sheets from the 
table. “Here’s the verbatim report on it. Let me 
see—Joe tells about the Regner woman being ready 
to quit and line up another crib to crack, but deciding 
to first make a clean sweep of that one by grabbing 
whatever valuables were left unguarded in the town 
house. Joe found it a cinch—he was working alone 
on Lucy’s tip—and when he’d finished searching old 
Mr. Monckton’s room he noticed the ’phone on the 
wall and couldn’t resist calling up Charlie, who was 
waiting for him at Al’s. Here’s what he says himself: 


306 The Handwriting on the Wall 

‘I thought it would be a hell of a joke, and when I got 
him on the wire I told him there’d been nothing to 
it, and I was all packed up ready to get the stuff down¬ 
town. I said I’d meet him later at Al’s, but he said 
“no,” to call him up at his own joint and he gave me 
the number. It was all dark and I hadn’t another 
hand to flash the light, but I wrote the number down 
on the wall like the dick says—6-09-0. I hooked up 
the receiver with the other hand just as I finished, and 
then I heard something behind me and the electric 
lights burst out! 

“ ‘Me pencil broke in me hand, but I didn’t know 
it then! I whirled around and there stood the old 
guy, right between me and the door! I dunno what 
hit me then, but I’d been sniffing the snow to nerve 
me up to the job, and after all me bragging there I 
was pinched! I grabbed me billy out of me pocket 
and let him have it over the head, but when he dropped 
I kind of come to. Then I seen I’d croaked him for 
fair and I beat it in a hurry, tearing me pants leg on 
the fence, but I didn’t know that, either, till I got 
to Al’s. He sent me out to his sister’s dump in the 
sticks and it was there the dick found me, but I never 
meant to croak the old guy, only put him to sleep. 
Before God I never meant it and I see him in front 
of me all the time! I ain’t had a minute’s rest and 
all the snow in the world don’t drive the sight of him 
away! I’m glad it’s over!’ ” 

There was silence for a moment after Rex had fin¬ 
ished reading, and then Lucian Baynes asked: 


Ethel’s Reward 307 

“How did you ever induce him to go to court with 
you when Monckton was arraigned?” 

“I didn’t have to use much persuasion,” Cliff replied. 
“I saw to it that Pink-Eye Mike kept him charged 
up with all the dope he wanted, made him believe we 
were pals of A 1 taking care of him, and that he hadn’t 
a chance in the world of ever being found out. He 
had never seen me, and I reminded him it was night 
when he ran away from the farm, so the amateur de¬ 
tective who had gone there to smoke him out wouldn’t 
know him if he came face to face with him. He had 
the guilty man’s usual craving to see the suspect who 
was going to suffer in his place, the ‘snow’ had given 
him an abnormal sense of security, and when I sug¬ 
gested that it would be a good joke to watch the in¬ 
dictment he couldn’t resist the temptation.” 

“But how did you know the kid was going to be 
there? Somebody must have planned that coup on 
the part of the defense, and you were all prepared 
to go on the stand.” Henry spoke in an aggrieved 
tone. “George and I sat there gasping like fish out 
of water!” 

“Grosvenor Hood and Lemuel Lazenby called on 
me at the hospital, a few hours after Ethel had in¬ 
quired about my condition, and told me the line they 
meant to take and that little Bessie would be produced 
in court to tell her story, corroborating my own testi¬ 
mony on the stand. I knew, of course, that Ethel 
was at the bottom of it then, but I was worried about 
Joe, till I got out of the hospital and Phil told me 


308 The Handwriting on the Wall 

he had him safe and sound. It’s a good thing the 
police caught the Regner woman just as she was pre¬ 
paring to leave the country. She’ll go up as Joe's 
accomplice, or accessory before the fact, even if they 
can’t fasten anything else on her, but they’ll never 
get her to confess; she isn’t that kind. Now, if 
Ethel—?” 

He got no further, for at that moment a key was 
inserted in the office door and Ethel herself walked 
in. She was pale and there was a rather sheepish 
air about her, but at the chorus of greeting she came 
slowly through the paneled opening into the council 
room and stood before them. 

“I couldn’t come before,” she protested in answer 
to the volley of reproachful questioning. “I was sick, 
really, but I’m all right now.” 

“Ethel!” Rex Powell exclaimed. “You weren’t hurt 
in the fight in that cellar, were you? Did a stray 
shot—?” 

“Goodness, no!” She smiled. “I wouldn’t let you 
have the laugh on me, though, by telling you what I’d 
got out of this last case! I suppose I’d better tell, 
though, just what I did do, and get it over. You’ve 
heard from Mr. Nichols where I was when you 
thought I’d gone to see my family?” 

“We never believed that for a minute, Ethel, but 
we wouldn’t contradict a lady.” Rex smiled, too, but 
there was a gentle rebuke in his tone. “Sit down and 
assure Cliff for me that I tried to obey his instruc¬ 
tions.” 


Ethel 9 s Reward 309 

“About bringing me to the office here in the morn¬ 
ings and seeing me home?” Ethel seated herself. 
“We both obeyed him, for you couldn’t help it if I 
wasn’t here to be taken home, and Mr. Nichols hadn’t 
told me I couldn’t go out alone during office hours 
if I liked! He only said for me to be sure he found 
me here at my desk when he came back, and I would 
have been if I hadn’t got sick! You remember when 
I gave you his message that Tuesday? Well, after¬ 
wards I got thinking, and I knew we’d have to get 
little Bessie and hold her as a witness before her 
mother and uncle rushed her out of town somewhere. 
I stayed in the office most of Tuesday afternoon and 
then went up to her house to see if I couldn’t get hold 
of her, but I didn’t have any luck. I came back in 
time for you to take me home, Mr. Powell, but I was 
up where Bessie lived at seven the next morning, in 
the vestibule, when she slipped out with a kitten in 
her arms. 

“She was afraid to speak to me at first and said 
her mamma had punished her for talking to me the 
day before. They were going away right off, to the 
country, but her uncle had said they’d have to leave 
the kitty behind and she had run out to give it to a 
little girl across the street. 

“I told her Joe was in trouble, that Mr. Nichols 
really was a friend of his and I’d come to take her 
to Joe, so he could give her a message for her uncle. 
I piled her and the kitten into the taxi that had brought 
me up there and took them both to a woman I know 


310 The Handwriting on the Wall 

down on the East Side who—who doesn’t ask many 
questions. She kept Bessie for me till Friday, when 
the case came up, and in the meantime I sent Mr. 
Lazenby to Bessie and he explained what she was to 
do to help Joe and her uncle. It—it was a kind of a 
mean trick to play on her, but after all it was justice, 
wasn’t it?” 

She glanced appealingly around the table and Rex 
said: 

“It was necessary, vital, and her uncle himself will 
get off lightly. But I don’t understand! I called for 
you on Wednesday morning and brought you to the 
office. You were gone when I called for you in the 
evening to take you home.” 

“I know. After I left Bessie in good hands I 
hurried home so as to be there when you came for 
me.” Ethel flushed. “I was worried all the morning 
because Mr. Nichols didn’t come in, for I knew he 
was on the trail of that ‘Joe’ and I was afraid some¬ 
thing must have happened to him! In the afternoon 
Mr. Howe came and left word for Mr. Nichols that 
he was on Lucy Regner’s trail, and it came to me in 
a flash that if I followed him I could find Joe myself, 
for Mr. Nichols had spoken of the Regner woman to 
Bessie, and I knew she was mixed up in it.” 

“Holy Cat!” Phil Howe stared. “You didn’t trail 
me to Al’s—?” 

“I followed you to a cheap flat away up near the 
Concourse, and I was right at your heels that night 
when you trailed a woman and a young man who’d 


Ethel's Reward 


311 


called for her down to Hester Street and back uptown 
again.” Ethel’s tone was meek, but an irrepressible 
dimple showed in her cheek and her downcast eyes 
were twinkling. “Then they separated and you and 
I followed the woman to that saloon that was wide 
open. I saw Mr. Nichols then, hanging around out¬ 
side, and when the woman came out with another 
young man and you started to follow them, Mr. 
Nichols slipped in behind and I—I finished the pro¬ 
cession ! It was good they took the subway, so there 
were cars enough on the train for all of us, and I only 
had to watch Mr. Nichols, who was up in front in 
the same car with me, to keep in line. 

“I was just half a block behind when we all straggled 
to that alley back of the pawnshop and I saw Mr. 
Nichols slide around, past where you were hiding and 
watching the woman, down into the cellar where she 
had left the young man. I wanted to go after him, 
but I was afraid Mr. Howe would spot me. Then 
the woman went into the cellar next door, with you 
following and me just behind, and the shooting started! 
I was the last one through that connecting door, when 
he turned on the lights, and I saw Mr. Nichols fall 
and that young fellow shooting wild! I—I made 
him drop his gun and then he went all to pieces and 
Mr. Howe and I got him off to that place you call 
Pink-Eye Mike’s just before the police came. I never 
in the world would have left Mr. Nichols hurt like 
that, only Mr. Howe showed me that he would want 
us to finish his work for him!” Ethel paused and 


312 The Handwriting on the Wall 

then added: “Isn’t it fine that Mr. Monckton’s girl 
didn’t go back on him after all? Did you see the 
papers yesterday? I told him so when I saw him in 
the Tombs, but that was only to make him feel better; 
I didn’t really believe she’d stick, though I hoped so!” 

The Shadowers exchanged relieved glances and then 
George Roper asked: 

“Wouldn’t you stick yourself, Ethel? By the way, 
how is that angelic dog you brought here when you 
first came back to us three weeks ago?” 

“I gave him away to somebody who doesn’t know 
his disposition!” Ethel saw that the six pair of eyes 
were upon her, and flushed more deeply than ever as 
she glanced down at her waist, no longer adorned 
with its accustomed corsage bouquet. “Miss Norcross 
was in love with Mr. Monckton, I guess, even if she 
couldn’t quite believe at first that he was innocent, but 
this love business is a lot of bunk, anyway! It’s 
catching, but half the time people don’t know whether 
they’ve got it or not!” 

Phil roared and even George chuckled, but Rex 
Powell said very seriously: 

“They are both very grateful to you, Ethel. We’ve 
received from Mr. Monckton the largest check of our 
career as The Shadowers, but see what he and Miss 
Norcross have sent you together!” 

He opened the jewel case and displayed a single 
string of pearls, small but perfectly matched and of 
an exquisitely glowing luster. 

Ethel gave a little gasp of pure delight and clasped 


Ethel's Reward 313 

them about her throat. Then the whimsical little 
smile they knew so well came over her face and she 
exclaimed: 

“It’s wonderful of them, but I couldn’t have put 
them on last week—not with the other reward I got 
for finding Bessie!” 

“What do you mean?” Rex demanded. 

“Mumps!” Ethel made a little grimace. “I caught 
them from her, and I wouldn’t let you know for fear 
you’d laugh! But all of us together made the greatest 
catch of The Shadowers yet, didn’t we, when we found 
the murderer of de Puyster Monckton?” 


THE END 






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